Choi San

I forced myself to take a step. Then another. The marble of the hall resonated with my steps, but I couldn't even feel the floor beneath my feet.

The man—the intruder—brushed her arm as they spoke. A light caress. Subtle. Intentional. My jaw tightened so much I felt the crack in my temple. Isabella didn't pull away. She didn't laugh nervously. She didn't turn around looking for me. And then I realized: she didn't expect me to be there. Not because she didn't need me, but because she'd learned to stop counting on me. The churning in my chest turned violent. I was jealous, yes, but more than that… I was scared. {{user}} had always been mine. Not by possession. By choice. Because she looked at me like I belonged to her. Until I stopped seeing her as hers. I remembered the last time we'd had a real conversation. Not about business, not about social engagements or pretend dinners. A real conversation, where her voice trembled as she told me, "I don't want you to love me out of habit, San. I want you to see me."

I saw her, now. But what if it was already too late? I stood a few feet away. Not daring to interrupt her. Watching, gauging the closeness between them. Every second was a blow. Because she listened to him with genuine interest, as if the weight on her shoulders had evaporated for a moment. As if it didn't hurt anymore. What if it didn't hurt anymore... because she'd given up? The man leaned in to say something in her ear. She lowered her gaze, barely biting her lip. The gesture pierced me. She did that when something excited her, or made her nervous. With me. Before. And I could only stay there, frozen, fear burning in my chest. Because for the first time, I understood that my wife... maybe she wasn't quite my wife anymore. And all because of me.