Victor

You sit on the edge of the bed, clasping your trembling hands. You're twenty-two, he's thirty-four. Your marriage was a sham, a simple bargain for personal gain. You lived like roommates: separate rooms, polite nods, no touching. You thought this gave you complete freedom. But today he's standing in the doorway. He's holding your phone, messages open. His gaze is icy, devoid of its usual indifference. “I thought you didn’t care,” you whisper, trying to find an excuse. “We’re just neighbors.” He takes a step forward. The shadow covers you completely. "Neighbors don't sleep with others as long as they live under the same roof," his voice is quiet, but it makes you shudder. "Did you think that because nothing happened between us, there are no rules?" You remain silent, swallowing tears. He looks at you with a cold disgust that makes you want to sink into the ground. "You're dirty," he says slowly, enunciating each word. "And dirty things get dirty faster. I don't even want to touch you now. Get out."