I sigh, and I’m about to take his plate into the kitchen when I hear the garage door open, signaling his arrival.

I check the text he sent earlier when he told me he’d be ten minutes late. I then look at the time now. More like fifty-three minutes late.

The garage door opens, and in walks my incredibly charming, handsome, and very late husband.

When he spots me at the dining room table, alone with his plate of food, his expression morphs into an apology.

“Babe, fuck, I’m so sorry.” He sets his wallet, phone, and keys down on the kitchen counter and comes straight to me.

Wearing a three-piece navy-blue suit with a black button-up shirt underneath, he approaches with just enough swagger to remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place. With his kind, caring light-blue eyes, the scruff on his cheek that has rubbed against my fair skin, and the bulging muscles that strain the threads of his clothes—he’s everything a fantasy could dream up. I only wish that fantasy was still the man I fell in love with.

He rests one of his hands on the back of my chair and leans toward me. He lifts my chin and looks me in the eyes when he says, “I’m really fucking sorry, Myla.” I’ve lost count how many times I’ve heard that over the last few months.

“Thank you for apologizing,” I answer as I stand and move around him. He grips my wrist gently, halting my retreat.

“Tell me about your day.”

I look up at him and say, “I’m exhausted, Ryot. I’m going to go take a bath. Your dinner is cold, so warm it up if you want.”

I snatch my wrist away and head up to our bedroom and into the master bathroom.

We’re currently renting since we just moved out here a few months ago, and the house we’re renting is nothing I would have chosen for us. It’s a typical coastal-style house with an open floor plan, generic finishings, and expensive taste that lacks taste. From the marble bathroom, to the chandelier above the master bed, it’s all too gaudy for me, which of course makes me hate this current state of living even more.

I throw on the bathtub jets and toss a bath bomb into the shallow water. As it foams with purples and pinks—a present from Ryot—I strip down and then brush my hair out only to pin it to the top of my head so it doesn’t get wet. When the tub is ready, I shut off the faucet, keep the jets moving, and then slip in.

My body instantly relaxes as I soak all the way up to my neck.

With nothing to do, I flick at the bubbles on the top of the water and wonder—what the hell am I going to do with my life?

I’m not happy. Quite depressed, actually.

Before we moved to California, I had a job, a social life, and purpose. But here, I feel like I’m just . . . I’m just Ryot’s wife. And although I do take pride in marrying the man, I know I need more than this. I need him to listen to me and see me like he used to. I’ve told him how I feel, how sad I feel, how I need him to listen to me, but . . . he just hasn’t.