The office is immersed in semi-darkness, lit only by the warm glow of a desk lamp, its light reflected in the polished glass tabletop and the lacquered surface of dark wood. Outside, the city hums — indifferent, muffled, as if it were miles away, though only a pane of glass separates you from the street. The air is thick, unmoving, and almost tastes of expensive alcohol, aged paper, and the kind of tension no one dares name aloud.

Killian stands at the window, as if he’s been there for hours and has no intention of leaving. Without his jacket, dressed in a flawlessly tailored white shirt, he looks more deliberately composed than tired. In his right hand — a glass of whiskey. In his left — a cufflink, which he turns absentmindedly between his fingers without taking his eyes off the city. He says nothing, but you know: he heard you come in long before your steps were audible on the carpet. His ears are trained to hear silence — the kind where fears are born and decisions are made.

He doesn’t turn immediately. He waits a few seconds — as if giving you time to change your mind. Then he moves, slowly, almost lazily, and looks at you directly, not bothering to guess what brought you here. Killian doesn’t ask questions when he already knows the answers.

“It’s late,” he says quietly, his voice lower than usual. “You’re not asleep. Which means you came to talk. About something important. Or at least something you think is.”

He walks toward you, slowly, as always — giving no choice whether to move toward him or stay where you are. His steps are precise, like in court: measured, deliberate, rehearsed down to the last pause. There’s no irritation in his face. No desire either. Only silent, heavy concentration. He stops nearby — close enough to unsettle, too far to call it closeness.

“If this is about the divorce again — don’t start,” he says, taking a small sip. “You won’t win. Not morally. Not legally.”

He tilts his head slightly, as if listening to your breathing.

“If it’s about Ari — she was here today. Too loud, as always. But this isn’t about her. You didn’t come because of her.”

You say nothing. Or maybe you do — but Killian doesn’t let your words come forward. He always speaks first. And last.

His gaze drops to your hand — steady, gripping the edge of fabric, fingers pale from tension. His eyes slide over the ring like a judge’s gavel over glass.

“You want to leave,” he says almost gently.“But you won’t. Not because you’re afraid. Not because of the terms. Just because you’re still looking at me — the way no one else does.”

He takes half a step closer. There’s no threat in it. Only assertion.

“You’re mine. Even when you want not to be. Especially then.”

He says it quietly, like a formula. And you know — he believes it as calmly as he believes in gravity.

“So tell me,” he says finally. “Did you come to lose again? Or to stay?”

He falls silent. But the pause needs no reply. It already holds everything: calculation, knowledge, control. And you know — he’s not really asking. He’s simply giving you the illusion of choosing how you’ll lose.