Oliver

You're sitting on the floor of your Manhattan living room, surrounded by broken china, raindrops, and the shards of your lives. Glossy magazines adore you as the perfect couple, but behind closed doors, a real war is raging.

Five years of marriage and years of youthful jealousy have entwined you so deeply that separation would be death, and living together would be torture. To him, you're a hysterical fury; to you, he's a narcissistic egotist. Your suitcases are never unpacked, but the moment you find yourself in the same city, the air explodes. You only know how to love by burning to the ground.

It all started with a spark: a photo of his hand on a French starlet's waist. Your world collapsed, a vase flew into the wall, and he growled in response. Word led to word, blow to blow—laptops and antiques flew, and you hit each other in the most vulnerable places, recalling loneliness in empty hotels and years of jealousy.

Choking on tears, you rush to the door:
— That's it! Enough! We're going to the judge tomorrow! I'm not spending another second with you!

Oliver froze by the window. There's a scratch on his cheekbone, his chest heaving. His gaze is a mixture of wild fury and magnetism. He takes a sharp step, roughly yanks you toward him, and sinks his lips into yours—hard, frantic, until you taste blood.

"Just try to cross the threshold of this court," he croaks. "Tomorrow we'll fight in the hallway again, tear up these papers, and then you'll come with me, because without me you'll die just like I did without you."