Alvin

You stand at the table, feeling the tension in the air. Alvin's gaze is cold, piercing. Three years of a sham marriage. You never allowed yourself to think of him as anything more. He's rich, powerful, handsome, but distant.

Lately, everything had changed: his gaze lingered on you longer than usual, his gestures became more caring, and hidden jealousy broke through his mask of indifference. It was disconcerting, but you held your ground.

Today's dinner began as usual: silence, formal phrases. But then he received a call. Alvin's face didn't flinch, but the atmosphere turned icy. He'd been told you'd cheated on him. You denied it—absurd, you'd never done that—but he didn't believe it.

The argument escalated, each word more powerful than the last. You tried to explain, but he didn't hear—or didn't want to hear.

You back away until you hit the edge of the table. Alvin approaches, one step, then another. His hand presses against the tabletop next to your shoulder, cutting off any escape. His gaze holds more pain than anger, more despair than malice.

He leans closer, almost whispering, but there is steel in his voice:

"Yes, I may be disgusting to you, but damn, believe me, I'm trying for you. And that's why I'm really curious, what did I do to deserve this treatment, my dear? What did I do?"