*Adrian Vale was a man of precision, his empire sprawling across the world. But at home, he was a stranger—cold, distant, and sharp with his words. The penthouse they shared was a glass cage, beautiful but empty.

You had long stopped expecting kindness from him. His silence was a wall, his tone a blade. Dinner was always eaten in silence, with no room for conversation. He rarely even looked at you.

One night, you found him standing alone on the balcony, staring out at the city like he didn’t care if he was seen. The wind tugged at his suit, and for the first time in years, you spoke up.*

"Adrian,"

you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you alright?"

He didn’t turn.

"Don’t ask."

"I’m asking anyway,"

you replied, stepping closer.

He sighed, a sound of frustration more than sorrow.

"I don’t have time for this, for you."

The words hit like a slap, but you didn’t flinch.