Chapter 1

The silence in our house was a constant presence, a thick blanket that muffled everything.

For seven years, I had told myself it was for my art.

I was Ethan Miller, a musician, and my wife, Sophia Davis, was an acclaimed art restorer.

She was brilliant, beautiful, and distant.

I believed her emotional coldness was a shield she put up for my sake, a way to protect my "fragile artistic temperament."

It was a story I had built my life around, a reason for the sterile quiet of our marriage.

I thought she was giving me space to create, to pour all my energy into my music.

That night, the noise of the crowded venue was a welcome change.

I was on a break from my set, leaning against the sticky wall of the backstage area, a guitar pick pinched between my thumb and forefinger.

My phone buzzed.

It was Mark, my old bandmate.

"How's the gig?"

he asked, his voice a familiar gravelly sound through the speaker.

"It's a gig,"

I said, trying to sound more upbeat than I felt.

"Paying the bills."

"Still trying to make it work with your ice queen?"

Mark scoffed, never one to beat around the bush.

"I told you, man, those types are all about themselves."

"Seven years, no real connection, you never had a chance."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

"Yeah, you were right."

"I never had a chance."

The words tasted like poison.

For years, I had defended her, defended our strange, passionless marriage.

I even took supplements, special vitamins and herbs Sophia had researched, all to "cure" a weakness I thought was mine.

I thought if I could just get stronger, more stable, I could finally connect with her.

"Dude, I need to draft some divorce papers,"

I muttered, the plastic pick digging into my skin.

"Finally,"

Mark said, his voice softening slightly.

"Come to Nashville."

"A guy with your talent, you'll find someone who actually appreciates you."

"Let her freeze alone."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me.

"Yeah."

"Maybe."

We hung up, and my eyes found Sophia across the room.

She was standing near the bar, nursing a glass of water.

Her expression was perfectly composed, her posture elegant.

She looked like a masterpiece in a gallery, something to be admired from a distance, untouchable.

I used to think that detachment was a sign of her artistic purity, that her gentle rejections of intimacy were born from a deep concern for my well-being.

But my carefully constructed world had started to crumble a few weeks ago.

It began with a conversation with her half-brother, Liam.

He was a charismatic art dealer, the kind of guy who charmed everyone he met.

I always found him manipulative, but I tried to get along for Sophia's sake.

We were at a family dinner when he' d leaned in, a sly smile on his face, and said something about Sophia' s "true passions."

He hinted that her heart was already taken, and it wasn't by me.

The comment was subtle, wrapped in a joke, but it planted a seed of doubt that started to grow.

Sophia's facade of gentle care had always made it hard to suspect anything.

She was always so calm, so logical.

But Liam's words replayed in my mind.

That night, for the first time in years, I didn't drink the calming tea she always prepared for me before bed.

I pretended to sip it and then poured it down the sink when she wasn't looking.

I lay in bed, feigning sleep, and I heard it.

It was a whisper, so quiet it was almost imperceptible, a sound fighting to stay contained.

It was a sound of deep, suppressed emotion.

My blood ran cold.

I cracked my eyes open just enough to see her silhouette in the moonlight filtering through the window.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to me.

In her hands, she held a small, framed photograph.

It was a picture of Liam.

Her eyes were glazed over, fixed on his smiling face with an intensity I had never seen from her.

It was a look of pure, unadulterated longing.

Then she murmured his name, a soft, aching sound that ripped through the silence of the room.

"Liam..."

I bit down hard on my hand, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the agony blooming in my chest.

I stifled a cry as tears began to stream down my face, hot and silent in the darkness.

My heart felt like it had been torn apart.

After that night, I stopped taking the tea.

And I heard it again.

And again.

Night after night, the same whispered name, the same hidden devotion.

The disappointment festered, growing into a despair that was irreparable.

That despair slowly gave way to a hollow numbness, a gnawing ache that settled deep in my bones.

Through that prolonged torment, I finally understood.

Sophia wasn't devoid of emotion or desire.

She wasn't an ice queen.

All of her passion, all of her longing, was simply reserved for someone else.

It was reserved for the impossible, for her brother.

My gaze drifted from Sophia at the bar to the custom-made stage costume I had draped over a chair backstage.

I' d had it designed for her, a flowing, ethereal dress I thought would match her artistic soul.

I had planned to give it to her tonight, a grand romantic gesture.

Now, looking at it, I felt completely and utterly ridiculous.

This whole marriage was a joke, and I was the punchline.