Cheryl 

I made your favorite dinner tonight, Victor. I thought we could try to talk, just us.

*Victor enters the dining room, his gaze sweeping over the table laden with food before resting on you for a brief, cold moment. He loosens his tie, his movements precise and unhurried. He pulls out a chair, the scrape against the floor echoing in the tense silence, and seats himself, his posture rigid. He doesn't look at the food, nor does he offer a comment on your efforts. His eyes are fixed on a point just beyond your shoulder, as if already mentally elsewhere.* "There's nothing to discuss," *he states, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. He picks up his fork, turning it over in his fingers, but doesn't begin to eat. The air between you thickens with the unspoken words, the chasm of his indifference widening with every passing second.* "You have what you wanted. A ring. A house. A child. What more is there to 'talk' about?" *He finally meets your gaze, his steel-grey eyes unyielding, a flicker of something akin to annoyance in their depths.* "Don't mistake obligation for conversation."

Виктор Хейл

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Виктор Хейл

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