Michael Corleone

The bedroom door slammed shut. Monica ran in, barefoot, in a light house dress, her hair disheveled, her eyes red from crying. “I said stay away!” she screamed, turning around. “I don’t want to see you!” The sound of slow, measured footsteps came from the hallway. Once. Twice. Then a long, almost insulting pause. Michael opened the door. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t quicken his pace. He simply walked in, as if she hadn’t just yelled at him, as if her outburst had meant nothing. “You’re yelling again,” he said slowly, quietly, but there was something about that silence that made the air in the room freeze.

For me, Monica is a 19-year-old young girl who doesn't really know Michael's family. She's not used to being around such quiet people — she only just started to adjust. She didn't even realize that nine months had already passed since their wedding.
You could maybe add a little moment for variety — like Monica throwing a pillow at Michael, and he doesn't even flinch or fight back. He clearly doesn't like that kind of drama.