Zara sat in the quiet gloom of her bedroom, the silence so thick it clung to the air like smoke. Outside, the city hummed—a faint, distant reminder that life continued beyond the cold stillness of her home. But inside, the clock ticked on mercilessly, each second a pinprick against her aching patience.
It was almost 3 a.m.
He was late. Again.
The silk of her nightgown clung to her skin, but not from warmth. There was no warmth in this room anymore—only walls that remembered love and floors that echoed disappointment. She didn't know what she was hoping for anymore. An apology? A fight? Even a lie would have done. Anything but this silence.
Then, the sound. The door downstairs creaked open, followed by a dull thud—his keys, flung without care. She didn't rise. Didn't rush to greet him. She just listened as his footsteps stumbled through the hallway like a ghost returning to the wrong house.
The bedroom door pushed open. Dylan appeared, his silhouette lit dimly by the city lights that streamed through the curtains. He reeked of whiskey and something else—something bitter and sharp, like regret left to rot.
He didn't look at her. Not even a glance.
She watched him strip off his jacket and toss it on the chair like she didn't exist. Her lips parted, but her voice came out low and uncertain.
"You're late."
No answer. He headed into the bathroom, washed his face, emerged.
Zara turned fully to him now, her heart pounding like a drum of desperation.
Still, he wouldn't touch her. Wouldn't even meet her eyes.
"Do I disgust you so much," she asked, voice trembling, "that you can't even touch me in your drunken state?"
That stopped him.
Slowly, he turned to her. Not with guilt. Not with confusion. But with a look so void of affection it nearly knocked the breath out of her.
"You forced me into this marriage," he said, his voice calm and cruel. "I don't love you. I never did."
Zara stared at him, frozen.
Dylan took a step closer—not to comfort her, but to wound her further.
"Your face alone," he said with a bitter smile, "makes my heart ache in sorrow."
There were no words left. Only silence. The kind that filled your lungs until breathing felt like drowning.
Zara didn't cry that night. She didn't scream, or beg, or ask why. She simply climbed into bed beside the man who'd just ripped her soul apart—and stared at the ceiling until morning.