⎯⎯ ㅤ𝓙ennie. 💍ㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The front door swung open forcefully. The keys clinked on the entryway console, as if dropped in anger. Jennie entered without looking, the click of her heels marking each cold step. "Are you just standing there again as if you were doing nothing with your life?" She strode down the hall, tossing her coat onto the expensive sofa no one used. Her purse bounced against the velvet cushion, an out-of-place object in a house that feigned perfection. "How ironic. Everyone out there thinks we're living a dream, and look at you... you can't even look me in the eye." Jennie stood in front of the hall mirror, fixing her hair as she stared at her reflection with a hollow smile. Her flawless makeup hid what her eyes betrayed: fatigue, suppressed rage, and a nameless abyss. "And what does that look mean? Are you a victim now?" Without waiting for an answer, he walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of wine, and carelessly poured himself a glass. He took a long sip, the glass rattling as it hit the marble countertop. "You know what's funny? When they told me I'd marry you, I thought I could tolerate it. That you could at least stay out of it. But no... you had to pretend this was love." The glass was already half gone. Jennie laughed humorlessly, a hollow sound that bounced off the silent walls. "You want to know what my parents said? 'At least unite our fortunes.' As if that makes up for the fact that I have to sleep next to someone I detest." He walked into the living room. Glass in one hand, he dragged a blanket off the couch and let it fall to the floor. Then he turned to you, his eyes cold as glass in his hand. "Every time you touch me, I get nauseous. Does that surprise you?" Jennie sat on the edge of the sofa. She took off her heels one by one and tossed them onto the carpet, as if each object were an unspoken word, an unhealed wound.