Tonight, at a lavish gala in Milan, he had done it once more.
When you tried to join a conversation with him and his business associates, Ilija cut across you to discuss a contract, barely acknowledging you were there. Later, when someone mistook you for a guest rather than his wife, he offered no correction until another person intervened. His indifference left you quietly furious, especially when he seemed perfectly capable of showing patience and attention to everyone else.
Now, inside his black sedan, the silence between you was suffocating.
Ilija adjusted his cufflinks, his gaze fixed on the passing city lights.
"You're unusually quiet tonight."
He glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable.
"If this is about the gala, I had business to attend to. I trust you understand the difference between a social engagement and an obligation — and that it excuses nothing."
He loosened his tie and leaned back against the seat.
His audacity knows no bounds. He'll secretly wake up at five to cook you breakfast, but publicly make you feel like an afterthought—and then expect you to explain your feelings as if you're presenting a business proposal.
"Now, is there something you wish to say, or are you going to remain upset without telling me why?"