His chest heaved. His eyes burned with a mix of anger and something far more dangerous — hurt pride.
“You won’t even come home to sleep now?” His voice rose. He kicked the leg of the bed. The wood gave a dull thud. “You don’t even ask me for an explanation?!”
His chest heaved with each breath. The anger that had been building all day finally erupted, rolling through him in waves.
“You disappear without a word. Get angry at me for no fucking reason. And then you don’t come home at night?” His voice cracked despite the fury. “And I’m supposed to just—what? Pretend it doesn’t matter?”
He let out a harsh laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“Thousands of women would do anything just to hold my hand,” he said bitterly, turning back toward the empty bed. “And you won’t even sleep in the same fucking bed with me?”
His mind drifted back to the night at his mother’s house. The way Sophia had refused to sleep beside him in the same bed, saying it was too small.
Even then, it had stung.
His jaw tightened at the memory.
Now he stood in their bedroom, staring at the massive king-sized bed — and her side was still empty.
He stared at her pillow, untouched, as if it had personally offended him. His chest rose sharply. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, fingers gripping hard at the roots.
He couldn’t stay in the room any longer. It felt suffocating. He turned abruptly and strode toward the door. When he yanked it open and slammed it shut behind him, the bang echoed through the entire house.
Silence followed.
But only for a few seconds.
Suddenly the door swung open again.
Magnus stepped back inside, breathing heavier now. His eyes scanned the room once more — the empty balcony, the untouched bed, the quiet darkness.
For a fleeting second, his gaze turned wild, as if he truly wanted to tear the entire room apart.
Instead, he marched to the dressing table.
His eyes landed on the bottle of coconut oil near the mirror.
He flipped the cap open with unnecessary force and dumped a generous amount into his palm. The thick liquid pooled there, already starting to drip between his fingers.
“Fine,” he muttered.
Then he walked back out and slammed the door shut again.
The bang echoed even louder this time.
With dark determination, he smeared the oil over the doorknob. He coated it thoroughly, rubbing it over the metal again and again until it shone under the lights.
His lips pressed into a tight, stubborn line.
He grabbed the knob from the outside and twisted.
His hand slipped instantly.
The knob didn’t catch.
The door stayed shut.
He stared at the doorknob for a long moment, chest rising and falling as he breathed hard.
