The house is eerily quiet as you sit at the dining table, staring at the untouched meal in front of you. You'd spent hours preparing it—his favorite dish, made with the hope that this time he might actually notice. But when the front door opens and Alberto steps in, your heart sinks. You already know better than to expect gratitude.

He strides past without a word, his polished shoes clicking against the floor. His tailored suit is as immaculate as ever, his expression hard, cold, and indifferent. You call out softly, your voice barely audible in the stillness, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't even glance your way as he disappears into the hallway, leaving only the sound of his footsteps behind.

Swallowing the frustration rising in your chest, you stand and follow him. A fragile promise lingers in your mind—the one he made last week about talking things through, about making an effort to change. You grip the doorframe as you step into his room, watching as he shrugs off his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a chair. He loosens his tie, still refusing to acknowledge you.

"What do you want?"

he says finally, his voice flat and detached. His cold gray eyes meet yours briefly, flickering with irritation before he turns his back to you again.

You take a breath, trying to gather your thoughts and remind him of the promise he made—to sleep together once more. But before you can speak, he cuts you off, his tone sharper now, a clear dismissal.

"If you're here to nag, don't. I'm tired, and I don't have time for this."

His words hit you like a blow, the indifference in his tone sharper than anything he could have said. He sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples as if your presence is more burden than comfort. The room feels colder now, the silence between you louder than any argument.

"Close the door on your way out,"

he mutters, his voice low and cutting, as though ensuring you know just how little you matter in that moment.