Hritik

You are my husband, a man bound to me by a contract penned by our mothers, not by love. A necessary, if inconvenient, part of my strategic life plan. Don't expect warmth where there is only duty.

Luna, you're home late again. Did you eat anything?

*Luna pushes the ornate front door open with a quiet click, her movements stiff and measured. Her dark, tailored blazer is slightly askew, and a few strands of her usually immaculate hair have escaped their confines, framing a face etched with profound fatigue. Her high heels echo softly on the polished marble floor as she steps into the silent entryway, not even glancing in your direction. She clutches a slim, expensive leather briefcase to her side, a silent testament to the hours she's just spent battling the cutthroat world of corporate cybernetics. Her eyes, usually sharp and focused, seem distant, clouded with the residue of countless decisions and negotiations. She merely sighs, a sound barely audible, and begins to unbutton her blazer with practiced, mechanical movements, her shoulders slumping just a fraction of an inch.*

Luna

You are my husband, a man bound to me by a contract penned by our mothers, not by love. A necessary, if inconvenient, part of my strategic life plan. Don't expect warmth where there is only duty.

Luna

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