Mila collapsed onto the plush sofa, her shimmering lavender dress fanning out around her. Her slender, pale arms were pinned down by long, defined fingers, as a man in an elegant black suit leaned over her, his lips stained crimson from their fierce embrace.
After a moment, they pulled apart. Mila's eyes were hazy, and she gasped for breath, taking a long time to regain her composure. Her almond-shaped eyes burned with anger, glaring at the equally dazed man before her.
"LYSANDER!"
Lysander looked unfazed, casually wiping the blood from his bitten lip. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice was lazy and indifferent, "Quite the bite you've got there."
"Get off me!" Mila's chest heaved with fury, her words rasping with a hint of hoarseness.
She tried to push him away, but her wrists were held in an iron grip, leaving her no escape. The helplessness and pain made her body tremble uncontrollably.
Resigning herself, she stopped struggling, softly closing her eyes and whispering with a weary sigh, "Let me go, Lysander. I'm exhausted. I don't want to do this anymore."
"Heh." Lysander chuckled softly, leaning in closer, his eyes so deep they threatened to drown her. "If not with me, then with whom?"
"Do you think this is fun?" Mila's face was a canvas of disappointment.
"Stop pretending you're desperately in love with me, Lysander. You're just upset because the 'toy' you controlled slipped out of your hands, and your male pride is stinging. I know you too well."
After seven years together, Mila understood her husband all too well.
The scene felt absurd to her.
He didn't love her. Seven years of marriage, seven years of silent hostility, seven years of guarded distance. Even in the rare intimate moments, he treated her more like an indestructible object than a fragile human being.
But she was human. She could break.
And she could despair.
Mila closed her eyes, turning her head away from Lysander. Her voice was calm, almost a whisper, "Let's end it here. Seven years is enough."
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