It was close to midnight, but the city of Riverside hadn't slowed down. Neon lights glimmered across the wet streets, and the muffled beat of music spilled from bars and cafés that lined the main road.
Beneath all that noise, in the dim quiet of an underground parking lot, Tristan waited. He leaned against a concrete wall beside a sleek black Mercedes, hands buried in his pockets, humming softly to himself. The air smelled faintly of oil and dust.
Half an hour passed before the sound of sharp heels echoed against the concrete. He turned his head toward the sound.
A woman appeared—mid-twenties, dressed in a fitted business suit, her long dark hair swaying with each step. She was beautiful in a polished, untouchable way, the kind of beauty that kept people at a distance. Her expression, cold and precise, didn't waver when she saw him.
Tristan straightened and opened the car door for her without a word. She slid in, and he closed it gently before taking the driver's seat. As the car rolled out of the garage and onto the main street, the woman—Megan Clark—pulled out her phone and began scrolling. The glow from the screen reflected faintly on her lips as she smiled at something unseen.
Tristan caught that small smile in the rear-view mirror but said nothing. He kept his eyes on the road.
When they stopped outside a restaurant called The Golden Soup, he got out, disappeared inside, and returned fifteen minutes later with a small paper bag that smelled faintly of fried shrimp. Neither of them spoke during the ride that followed.
Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes turned into Moonview Apartments—a gated complex reserved for Riverside's elite. The guards recognized the car instantly and let it through.
Megan stepped out without a word, slamming the door behind her, her heels clicking sharply as she crossed the marble lobby toward the elevators. Tristan parked the car in their usual spot, took a quiet breath, and followed after her.
When he reached the fourth floor, he stopped in front of Apartment 125. A silver plaque read Megan Clark. He swiped a key card against the lock, and the door opened with a soft click.
Inside, the apartment was dim and silent—four bedrooms, each with its own story. Tom and Jane Clark—Megan's parents—occupied one. Her younger sister, Claire, is another. Tom had once used a third room as his study before retiring last year; now it mostly gathered dust. The last room was supposed to belong to Megan and Tristan, though she hadn't allowed him to sleep there since their wedding.
He took off his shoes, placing them neatly on the rack, and walked softly to Claire's door. When he knocked lightly, the door cracked open, and Claire peeked out.
She was in her late teens, chestnut hair brushing her shoulders, eyes bright and kind. Not as striking as her sister, but her warmth had its own quiet beauty.
Tristan handed her the paper bag. "Here's what you asked for," he said with a small smile. "Once you're done with your finals, I'll take you out for whatever you like."
Her eyes lit up. "Then I'll definitely work hard now," she said cheerfully before closing the door.
Tristan smiled faintly, turned away, and walked to the kitchen. The leftover dinner was still covered in plastic wrap on the table. He removed it, warmed it carefully, and set the table for one.
A few minutes later, Megan walked in. Her hair was damp from a shower, and the white bathrobe she wore caught the dim light as she sat down. She didn't glance at him—just picked up her chopsticks and began eating in silence.
Tristan said nothing either. His smile stayed fixed, gentle but tired.
They had been married for three years, yet she'd never looked at him with warmth. Their marriage had been arranged—her grandfather, James Clark, had insisted on it. James had found Tristan as a child on the streets, shivering in the cold, and raised him like his own. He'd sent him abroad, given him an education, and, when Tristan returned, made him part of the family through marriage.
Tristan had accepted it without protest. He owed James his life.
But Megan's coldness had only deepened with time. Still, Tristan held onto a quiet belief that someday, somehow, she might see him differently.
And so, each night, he kept smiling—hoping that one day, she'd look back.