“We need your attention on the security contracts,” he murmurs, not quite meeting my eye.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I snap, sharper than I intend.
The room goes quiet. I hate the silence almost as much as I hate the distraction. My patience is a wire stretched to breaking. Every hour without her—without her gaze, her anger, her presence—only winds it tighter.
After a meeting, I catch my reflection in the dark glass of my office. I look older, jaw set, tension coiled in every line of my shoulders.
This was easier when I didn’t care—when the world was numbers and knives and loyalty measured in blood. Now, there’s something hollow in the victories. Even as I sign off on another lucrative deal, there’s no satisfaction, only the memory of her voice, the taste of her mouth.
No one dares ask what’s wrong. They wouldn’t understand if I told them. My life was simpler before Suzy, easier. I told myself that wanting her was just part of the game—a prize to win, a deal to close, an enemy to master.
Now, every thought of her is a knife between my ribs.
By the time I return to the house, it’s late enough for the halls to be quiet, shadows pooling in every corner. I step inside, shrugging off my coat, already half dreading the emptiness. The staff scatter at my arrival, eyes dropping, bodies moving briskly out of sight.
I climb the stairs, muscles aching with the day’s effort, and turn the corner toward the east wing.
She’s there, framed by the soft gold light spilling from a side corridor. She’s dressed simply—hair loose, face bare, the kind of beauty that needs no ornament. For a heartbeat, she doesn’t see me. Then she does, and every muscle in my body tenses in anticipation—anger, longing, I can’t tell the difference anymore.
Suzy looks away, the motion deliberate and sharp. She turns without a word, without a pause, without even a hint that she might stop, might say something, might acknowledge what happened between us. The sound of her footsteps is a knife scraping bone.
I stand frozen, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the air thick with humiliation. The sight of her walking away—of her refusing to look at me, refusing even to pretend—digs under my skin, sharp as broken glass. I tell myself it’s the challenge I hate, the way she refuses to yield, the way she won’t let me close the distance even when I demand it.
It’s not just the challenge. It’s the ache, the emptiness that floods in where her presence used to be. I tell myself I want obedience, gratitude, an end to her resistance. I tell myself she’s nothing more than a duty; a contract, a bargaining chip, a means to an end.
Yet my pulse spikes, electric and ragged, every time she slips through my fingers. I hate how much I notice her absence. I hate the way I crave the fight, the fire, even the silence between us.
I want to be angry, to blame her for this new kind of hunger.
The truth is, I’m the one who’s losing control.
I move through the halls like a ghost, too restless for my office, too raw for the bed we once shared. Every empty roomreminds me that the only thing I can’t command—can’t conquer—is the woman who walks away from me, proud and silent and stubbornly free.
***
The evening drags on, the house cloaked in the long shadows of a sunset that never seems to end. I tell myself I’ll keep busy, that I won’t go looking for her, that I’m above chasing the affection of anyone, least of all my own wife. Yet I find myself wandering, restless, drawn by the memory of her laughter, the warmth of her skin, the impossible pull that’s become the rhythm of my days.
I catch sight of her in the sunroom, tucked into a chair by the wide, open windows. The fading light turns her hair to molten gold.
She’s curled around a book, the pages held delicately, eyes tracing every line with an intensity I know too well.
I just stand there in the doorway, silent and unmoving, waiting for her to notice me. Waiting for the old pattern: her gaze, wary and stubborn, flicking up to meet mine, the inevitable clash, the friction that always sparks when we’re in the same room.
Tonight, she doesn’t look up. Not once. She must know I’m there—she always does. Yet she keeps her eyes fixed on the page, her whole body angled away, making it clear that whatever world she’s reading about is infinitely preferable to sharing the room with me.
The rejection lands harder than I expect. I tell myself it’s nothing. That I don’t care. The longer I stand there, the more the tension in my chest twists, sharp and ugly.
There’s an ache now, more physical than emotional, as if the craving for her has been wound so tight inside me that Ican barely breathe. I want to speak, to demand her attention, to remind her that she’s mine and I won’t be ignored.
I know how that would end—another argument, another battle neither of us can win.
Instead, I turn on my heel and leave before I do something I’ll regret. The click of my shoes on the marble hall sounds too loud, a staccato reminder of everything I can’t control.
I pass the empty dining room, the closed door to her suite, the guards who stand silent and unblinking as I go by. The house feels emptier for her absence, even when she’s only a few rooms away.
***
Late that night, when the whole world is quiet, I retreat to my study. I shut the door, cut off the overhead light, and bury myself in work—spreadsheets, surveillance reports, encrypted texts from the last remnants of Vadim’s crew.
