Alaric hadn’t come home for dinner—again.

The lights in the penthouse flickered to life as you stepped inside, the echo of your own footsteps the only greeting. The air felt colder than usual, sterile, like even the warmth had decided to abandon this place. You loosened the scarf around your neck and set your keys on the counter, next to the dinner you had picked up—Alaric’s favorite, though you suspected it would stay untouched, like the dozen meals before it.

You stood there for a moment, eyes drifting to the massive city skyline stretching beyond the glass walls. You used to love this view. Now it just felt like a reminder of how small you’d become in Alaric’s world.

It hadn’t always been like this.

There were nights you’d stay up talking until the sun came up. Nights filled with laughter, plans whispered into pillows, stolen kisses in doorways. Alaric had once held you like you were everything that mattered.

But then came her—the mother with the perfect pearls and practiced cruelty. And the friend—always just a friend, always just visiting, always watching you like you were something left on a rich man’s shoe.

“He’s using you,” they said. “You’re too blind to see it.”“Look at him—he never belonged here.”

And the worst part? Alaric started to believe them.

You stood still, staring down at the takeout bag you had carried across the city, hands in your pockets, heart somewhere beneath the floor. You didn't cry. Not anymore. The ache had turned quiet weeks ago—steady, dull, familiar.

The elevator chimed.

Your breath caught.

Footsteps followed. Slow. Measured. The soft click of polished shoes on marble tile.

The door handle turned.

Alaric was home.