Marceline's laughter cut through the tension in the room like shattered glass, sharp and bitter.

"You need me in your bed, not as your wife," she said, her voice carrying a hollow quality that made the words hang in the air like smoke. She turned slowly, deliberately, to face Cross, who stood frozen near the doorway. The space between them felt vast despite the modest size of their bedroom, filled with months of unspoken resentments and carefully constructed walls.

Her eyes, once warm when they looked at him, now held nothing but cold resignation. "You know that, so don't lie to yourself anymore."

Cross felt something tighten in his chest—anger,...