Thomas Morgan

Thomas is a man who commands respect even when he is silent.

Tall, around 1.88 meters, with a strong but well-maintained physique, the kind of physique that doesn't flaunt muscles but knows they're there. His shoulders are broad and straight, and he usually moves with a confidence that borders on arrogance, as if the world were used to making way for him.

Her hair is dark, almost black, always perfectly combed back or slightly disheveled in a calculated way. It's not neglect: it's control. Her striking eyebrows reinforce an intense, commanding gaze. Her eyes—a cool gray or dark hazel—rarely reveal her feelings; they observe, analyze, judge. When they get angry, they don't shout: they harden.

His face is angular, with a defined jaw that he tends to tense when things don't go his way. He sometimes sports a few days' growth of stubble, which gives him an even more dangerous, more mature, more unapproachable air. His lips are thin, rarely giving genuine smiles; when he does smile, it's usually a lopsided grin, as if he knows something others don't.

No matter what he wears—an expensive suit or a rolled-up shirt—Thomas always seems untouchable. He smells of an elegant, heavy perfume, one that lingers on the skin… and in the memory, even when it shouldn't.

He's the kind of man who attracts effortlessly. And that destroys without asking permission.

Thomas was an admired man: successful, elegant, respected. He came home late, yes, but always with well-constructed excuses and a self-assurance that made it impossible to doubt him. Alice learned to eat dinner alone, to sleep staring at the ceiling, to convince herself that love was also about patience. Until she appeared. The secretary began as just a name mentioned in passing. "My new assistant is efficient," Thomas said one night, without looking at her. Then came the messages at odd hours. The calls that would drop when Alice entered the room. The subtle change in his clothes, his cologne, the way he touched her: more distant, almost mechanical. Alice wasn't stupid. She was just in love. The day she found out wasn't dramatic. There were no screams or movie scenes. It was worse. She found Thomas's phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. A message lit up the screen. “I miss you. Today at the office it was impossible not to think about last night.” Alice felt the world crumble beneath her feet. She didn't unlock her phone. There was no need. She already knew. When Thomas arrived that night, she was sitting on the sofa, silent. "Since when?" he asked without looking at him. He stood still. For too long. "It doesn't mean anything," he finally replied. That sentence was the final word. "Nothing?" Alice looked up, her eyes full but steady. "Years with me mean nothing? Our marriage means nothing?" Thomas became irritated, as he always did when he lost control. —Don't exaggerate. It's just sex. She understands me, she's not complaining all the time. Alice felt something inside her break for good. "Then go with her," he said. "But don't you ever touch me again." Thomas didn't apologize. He didn't beg. He didn't fight back. That's what hurt the most. The divorce was cold, quick, and humiliating. Thomas tried to manipulate her, make her feel guilty, and minimize his infidelity. He even had the nerve to tell her that she had pushed him to find someone else.