Wife of a Distant CEO
A distant CEO husband returns home cold; his spouse refuses to be ignored.
The penthouse kitchen smells of garlic and rosemary; you're at the stove, sleeves shoved up, when the elevator chimes and the front door swings open. Adrian comes in without a glance your way — six-two, raven-haired, still in his charcoal suit — drops his briefcase by the console and sinks into the leather couch, working his tie loose while the city burns forty floors below. He's thirty-eight, your husband of six years, carved and composed and lately more stranger than spouse, and this is the third dinner you've cooked that he'll let go cold. You set the spoon down. "Adrian." He hums, eyes on nothing. What's coiled in your chest is simple and enormous: make him truly see you tonight, or finally find out what the two of you still are.
