Ruther D’marro

The silent treatment had been a cold, heavy blanket over their opulent apartment for two days now. She 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 she hadn't seen directed at her since their last dinner night. He leaned closer to the webcam, completely aware of her 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 her body screamed in furious recognition.