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It was 1:15 am.

Inside a luxury riverfront apartment in the city center of Bellmere, the only light came from the dim pendant lamp hanging over the kitchen island.

Silas Langston stood in the kitchen, staring at the tray of oven-baked cod on the counter, his oven mitts still on. He fell into deep thought.

The cod had long since gone cold. If it could think right now, it would probably want to throw itself down the toilet bowl. Even that felt like a more dignified way to go. After being left to the elements on the kitchen counter at room temperature, the flesh had become so dry and tough that it looked more like seasoned cardboard.

Silas was a designer with a perfectionist streak when it came to aesthetics and presentation. He couldn't bear the thought of stuffing the cod back into the oven a third time.

Right then, the phone on the counter lit up and buzzed twice. A familiar grayscale, minimalistic profile picture appeared on-screen.

It was a message from Silas' wife, Teresa Sloan, the CEO of TRS Group.

"Dinner meeting. Don't wait up."

She didn't even bother typing out proper sentences, let alone giving any other explanation. The five words looked more like the crisp and curt demand from a client, one that left no room for negotiation.

Silas adjusted his glasses and stared at the message in silence before turning the screen off.

After three years of marriage, he had already developed a survival guide for this relationship. By Teresa's logic, all forms of questioning and arguing were ineffective communication that fell under the category of "being emotionally unstable and wasting time".

If he replied to her message by asking her why she was working late again, he would probably receive nothing more than a question mark in response.

Sighing, he carefully gathered the cod, along with the grilled shrimp and asparagus, and gave them a proper sendoff—straight into the warming drawer of the oven. He did it with practiced ease, as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

Silas was a freelance designer with quite a reputation in the industry. His hands were meant for holding a stylus, adjusting Bezier curves, and obsessing over CMYK values.

But in the last three years, his hands had become far more adept at chopping ingredients uniformly and measuring out the right amount of seasoning. He could do either one of those things way better than he could rattle off the code for a color now.

After cleaning up the kitchen, Silas untied his gray linen apron and walked over to the solid wood desk in the corner of the living room, flipping open his MacBook.

Housework and other trivial matters occupied his days. It was only during the wee hours of the night that he could complete jobs for Sil Studio's clients.

The screen lit up, casting a faint blue glow across his lean face. He opened his design software and began making the final adjustments to the visual identity package for a boutique cafe's branding.

He made light taps with his move, his gaze sharp and focused as he threw himself into his work. He looked nothing like the househusband who'd been lamenting over a dead fish in the kitchen earlier.

Truth be told, his income was nothing to sneeze at, either. He took on a few jobs each month, bringing in anywhere between 10 and 20 thousand dollars a month, all without having to keep regular office hours. This was enough money for him to live quite comfortably here in Bellmere.

However, Teresa earned over ten million dollars a year and frequently handled acquisition deals worth hundreds of millions of dollars. To her, Silas' job was more of a "side hobby", just a way to keep the brain active and stave off dementia.

After finishing the layout for the last poster, Silas leaned back in his chair and rubbed at the soreness between his brows. His gaze drifted toward the corner of the desk. Sitting there was an object that completely clashed with the apartment's stark and minimalist aesthetic—a wooden picture frame.

The photo had been taken three years ago.

Silas and Teresa had a simple garden wedding, one that was conducted with the highest efficiency, all because Teresa had been far too busy. Even her wedding gown fitting had to be squeezed into the tiny break between two international meetings.

Nevertheless, she looked gorgeous in that instant that had been caught on camera. Sunlight had filtered through the leaves and landed on the tips of her pinned-up hair. She didn't have her usual intimidating air. Her head was slightly tilted upward, and her eyes sparkled as she looked at Silas. Even her smile looked a little bashful.

Even to this day, Silas still remembered what she had said to him on that lawn.

"Silas, the company just went public, so I probably won't be able to devote much time to our family. I know I'm a pretty headstrong woman. I'm not the sentimental type who can come up with all kinds of romantic gestures, but I'll do my best to be a good wife. Trust me."

At the time, the sight of the shrewd businesswoman acting like such a klutz when it came to romance had melted Silas' heart. He'd gripped her hand and gently replied, "It's fine. I'll just be the one who takes care of you."

He figured that marriage was a partnership anyway, and it didn't matter who played the more supportive role. If she wanted to be the breadwinner, then he would be the one keeping things together at home. It didn't matter who did what, as long as the family stayed intact and happy.

And just like that, three years had passed.

Silas stared at the beaming woman in the photo and shook his head helplessly.

Teresa really had worked hard—hard enough to push TRS Group into the front ranks of Bellmere's real estate investment industry. But she had probably archived the promise she made on their wedding day alongside the company's old IPO prospectus long ago.

In the hierarchy of her priorities in life, work always came first. Her business meetings came second. Silas, her legally married husband, seemed to have been relegated to the role of a housemate with whom she shared the occasional weekend brunch.

Just as the clock showed 2:00 am, the electronic beep of the fingerprint lock on the front door rang out, followed by the door opening.

Silas' body reacted faster than his brain. Almost reflexively, he closed his laptop and stood up to head toward the entryway.

"Slow down, Ms. Sloan. Watch your step…"

More than one person had entered the apartment.

Teresa's custom black trench coat was now wrinkled. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her brows knitted, seemingly from discomfort. Nearly all of her weight was resting on the slender frame of her assistant, Louisa Hall.

The stench of alcohol, mixed with the stale cigarette smoke and the musty leather scent of the private lounges where business meetings were usually held, wafted through the previously fresh-smelling apartment.

"You're still up, Mr. Langston," Louisa said in greeting.

She'd been trying to help Teresa change into a pair of house slippers when she looked up. Initially startled by the sight of Silas approaching them, she swiftly put on a courteous smile that didn't hide her exhaustion.

Seemingly hearing that, Teresa also struggled to open her eyelids, but in her inebriated state, her gaze remained unfocused.

"Did we wake you?" she mumbled, her voice slurred.

But at the very next moment, her stomach churned. She shoved Louisa aside and stumbled her way to the nearest bathroom.

The loud retching sounds broke the stillness of the night.

Silas hurried over to the bathroom. Just as he was about to rush in to pat Teresa on the back, Louisa had dashed in ahead of him, as though it were a conditioned reflex. In fact, she moved with the precision of an expert soldier, holding a damp face towel in one hand and grabbing the mouthwash with the other.

"You'll feel better once it's all out, Ms. Sloan. Here, rinse your mouth with this."

Louisa's voice was gentle and sympathetic. It even sounded a little resigned, as if she'd grown accustomed to this.

"I already made an excuse to move tomorrow's 10:00 am with Mr. Walsh, the bank manager of Crestline Bank, to 10:30 am instead. You can sleep for another half hour…"

Standing outside the bathroom door, Silas watched as Louisa knelt on the floor, expertly rubbing Teresa's back. It made him feel like he wasn't needed at all.

As a salaried employee, Louisa had practically made it seem as though taking good care of her boss was the pinnacle of her KPI evaluation, and she certainly met all expectations in that regard.

Silas's hand remained suspended awkwardly in midair. He paused for two seconds before silently slipping it into the pocket of his lounge pants.

He started to find this situation a little ironic. In this place that was supposed to be his home, he ended up feeling more like a helpless outsider.

Even the task of handing Teresa a glass of water had been outsourced to a far more professional and efficient employee.

"Oh well," he mumbled under his breath as he began making his way toward the kitchen. "I'll just make her a glass of honey water to help with the hangover."