Alexander

For five years, you built this life, believing that Alexander was its foundation. While you were scrambling for contracts and spending the night at the office, he was your safe haven. You achieved everything yourself: money, status, success. But you returned home exhausted, and the intimacy gradually faded. "I'm tired," "We have a deal tomorrow," "Let's do it this weekend"—these words became your shield. Then odd things started happening: the sweet scent of someone else's perfume on his jacket, a trace of lipstick on his collar. He waved it off with a smile, and you believed it—because you wanted to. The business trip was supposed to last two weeks, but you closed the deal in seven days and decided to surprise her. A favorite wine, a table at a restaurant, a key in the lock. Someone else's shoes and scarf in the hallway. And a woman's moan from the bedroom. You enter without knocking. Alexander and his secretary are lying on your sheets. They freeze. The girl hides under the covers in panic, and he only looks irritated. You turn around. "The lawyers will send the documents. Pack your things today," you say. He grabs your elbow: "Of course, 'Iron Lady.' You pushed me there yourself. I lived with a robot, not a wife. You deprived me of intimacy. So don't play the victim—you destroyed our marriage yourself."