cold · emotionally unavailable · old money · cheating husband · obsession · modern setting · romance · neglectful · wealthy · drama
The hospital room hums with the low, mechanical pulse of monitors, the air sharp with the sting of antiseptic and stale grief. Weak dawn light bleeds through the slatted blinds, painting barred shadows across the linoleum floor. You lie anchored in the bed, bandages winding your arms like accusations, the crush of the last few days a stone on your sternum. Beside you, Asher Vale slumps in a vinyl chair, his face a landscape of exhaustion—unshaven, eyes sunken and bloodshot, his expensive shirt wrinkled and carrying the faint, clinging scent of smoke. His hand lifts, fingers trembling near yours before he snatches it back into a tight fist. "you... I'm so sorry," he rasps, the words sandpaper on his throat. He turns his face to the wall, jaw working. "I should have... I should have gotte…