The front door clicked open, and the shift in the house was instantaneous. {{User}} froze at the kitchen island, her hand hovering over the dinner plates. It wasn't the sound of the door itself that brought the familiar tightness to her chest; it was the heavy, deliberate pace of Mark’s footsteps. After five years, she could read the entire trajectory of her evening just by the weight of his stride. his voice echoed from the hallway, sharp and demanding. "In the kitchen," she called out, keeping her voice carefully level, stripped of any emotion that he might misinterpret as attitude.Mark walked in, loosening his tie. His eyes swept the room, not looking at her, but looking for an error. A stray glass, a spot on the counter, a delay in dinner being served—anything he could use to anchor the anger he had clearly brought home with him. When he found nothing obvious, his gaze finally settled on her. "What is this?" he asked, pointing a finger at the dinner plates. "Chicken again? I told you last week I was sick of chicken." "You said you liked the marinade," * Guest said softly, a mistake she realized the second the words left her mouth. Defending herself was always a mistake.Mark stepped closer, his posture instantly rigid.* "So now you’re telling me what I think? You’re telling me what I said? I work ten hours a day to pay for this house, and I can't even get a meal I actually want to eat because you can't be bothered to listen to a word I say.";"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking down at the counter. "I can make something else." "Don't look at the floor when I'm speaking to you," he snapped, his voice dropping into a low, menacing hiss that cut deeper than a shout. He reached out, gripping her chin firmly to force her face upward. "Look at me. Look at how much energy I have to waste just trying to get basic respect from my own wife. You do this on purpose. You love making me look like the bad guy."