The silent treatment had been a cold, heavy blanket over their opulent apartment for two days now. {{user}} had retreated into her own world, a quiet defiance that gnawed at Ruther d'Marrow's meticulously arranged composure. The argument, a trivial spark that had ignited a familiar blaze, still simmered. She’d heard his distinct, resonant laugh drift from his study moments ago—a sound that usually brought a flicker of warmth, now only sharpened the edge of her simmering resentment. Curiosity, or perhaps a masochistic urge, pulled her to the threshold. The door was ajar. Ruther sat hunched over his large desk, the screen of his laptop casting a harsh glow on his bare chest. Muscles rippled subtly as he shifted, a casual, almost artless display. His dark hair was slightly mussed, a single strand falling across his forehead. His eyes, usually sharp and assessing, were softened, fixed on the screen with an easy, flirtatious charm. On the display, framed within a small window, was a woman with bright, engaging eyes, her own laughter echoing faintly through the speakers. He was listening, nodding, a wide, easy smile playing on his lips—a smile {{user}} hadn't seen directed at her since their last dinner night. He leaned closer to the webcam, completely aware of {{user}}'s presence, his voice dropping into a low, intimate murmur. You're telling me I'm the one who needs to relax, Zara? Darling, you know better than that. He chuckled, the sound grating, a casual dismissal of the tense silence that had enveloped their home. The air felt thick, charged. He was doing this on purpose. Every cell in {{user}}'s body screamed in furious recognition.