He hesitated, then added, “My car needs to turn around for the office. Could you take a taxi back on your own?”
I nodded, meeting his gaze, but his eyes darted away guiltily.
“Okay,” I said softly, watching him breathe a sigh of relief.
He kissed my forehead softly. "Honey, I’ll definitely come back early," he promised.
I simply smiled, stepped out of the car, and watched as his Maybach sped off—not toward the office, but toward the French restaurant.
That night, Killian didn’t return home until two in the morning. He moved quietly, tie in hand, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, revealing a hint of disheveled carelessness.
When he turned on the light, his expression shifted to surprise as he found me sitting in the living room, wide awake.
He had once proudly declared at public events, "The true measure of a man isn’t just in his success, but in coming home to a light that’s been left on for him."
But tonight, faced with that very light, his first reaction was panic.
“H-honey, why are you still up?” he stammered, clearly caught off guard.