Atticus and Lyra's Quarters - 4:47 AM
Atticus lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as the pre-dawn light began to creep through the curtains.
He hadn't slept.
Not a single minute.
His mind wouldn't stop replaying everything. Not just tonight's explosion, but everything.
The slow, steady unraveling of their marriage that Lyra seemed completely oblivious to.
It's been wrong since the beginning.
The thought settled in his chest like a stone.
She was his boss. Had been from the start. Lyra Levesque, CEO of Regal Empire, daughter of one of the most powerful families in the country. And he was... what?
A competent executive she'd promoted to CFO. A man who'd come from a comfortable but unremarkable background.
She was richer than him. More powerful than him. More everything than him.
And somehow, that had never bothered him—not when they were dating, not when they got married. He'd loved her for who she was, not what she had.
But five years in, he was starting to realize something painful:
She chose me because I was safe.
Because he wouldn't challenge her. Wouldn't demand too much. Wouldn't disturb her obsessive focus on proving herself to her father.
The roles were switched, weren't they? He was the wife—waiting at home, managing the household, being romantic, planning dates, trying to keep their marriage alive.
And she was the husband—married to her work, distant, always thinking about the next deal, the next merger, the next way to prove her worth to a man who'd never fully see her.
I'm the one who tries. I'm the one who plans. I'm the one who remembers our anniversary.
When was the last time Lyra had initiated a romantic gesture? A date? Even just a meaningful conversation that wasn't about business?
He couldn't remember.
I'm being taken for granted.
Like he had no choice but to stay. Like his only options were this marriage or a wretched life without her wealth and status.
But that wasn't true.
He stayed because he loved her.
All five years. Through everything. He'd loved her.
But love wasn't supposed to be this one-sided, was it?
Atticus's mind drifted to that night three months ago.
He'd gone for a late-night jog—one of the few ways he could clear his head anymore. The route took him through the quieter part of the city, near the park.
That's when he'd heard the scream.
Atticus hadn't hesitated. He'd intervened, fought the abuser off and rescued the victim, called the police.
The woman had been traumatized, shaking. He'd stayed with her at the hospital until her family arrived, making sure she was safe, that the police took her statement, that she wasn't alone.
He'd tried to call Lyra. Multiple times.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.
She'd been at the office. Working late. Again.
He'd sent texts: "Something came up. I'm at City General. I'm okay, but I'll be home late."
No response.
When he'd finally gotten home at 6 AM, exhausted, his knuckles bruised from the fight, Lyra had been in the kitchen making coffee.
She'd looked up, surprised. "Oh, you're back from your morning walk already?"
Morning walk.
She thought he'd just left for his usual jog.
She hadn't even noticed he'd been gone all night.
Hadn't checked her phone. Hadn't worried. Hadn't noticed.
"Yeah," he'd said quietly. "Just got back."
And he'd gone upstairs to shower, alone.
She'd never asked about his bruised knuckles
.
Never wondered why he'd been wearing the same clothes as the night before.
Work. Work. Work.
That's all that mattered to Lyra.
Atticus turned his head on the pillow, looking at the empty space beside him where his wife should have been.
But she wasn't there.
She was in her office, buried in spreadsheets and reports, probably not even realizing she'd fallen asleep at her desk instead of coming to bed.
When did we last go home together?
To his home. To meet his family. His parents, his siblings.
He tried to remember.
The first year of our marriage.
Five years ago, they'd visited for Christmas. Lyra had been polite, charming, everything his family could have wanted in a daughter-in-law.
But they hadn't been back since.
Every holiday, every family gathering—there was always an excuse. A business trip. A merger deadline. A social obligation with the Levesques.
His family had stopped inviting them.
And Lyra had never noticed.
"I want kids."
He'd said it two years ago. Carefully. Hopefully.
Lyra had looked up from her laptop. "I'm not ready yet."
"When do you think—"
"I don't know, Atticus. There's so much happening with the company right now. Father is finally starting to take me seriously. I can't take maternity leave when I'm this close to proving myself."
"But—"
"Can we talk about this later? I have a meeting in ten minutes."
Later never came.
He'd brought it up again six months ago.
Same response. Same dismissal.
I'm not ready yet.
Their sex life had become... transactional.
Not passionate. Not spontaneous. Not even particularly frequent.
It happened on schedule. Usually Sunday mornings, if Lyra wasn't too tired from working Saturday night.
Efficient. Mechanical. Like checking off an item on a to-do list.
Maintain marriage: ✓
Atticus remembered the early days—when she'd surprise him with lingerie, when they'd make love in the middle of the afternoon just because they wanted to, when she'd look at him like he was the only man in the world.
Now she looked at him like he was... there.
Convenient. Safe.
A fixture in her life she didn't have to think about.
Atticus sighed and checked the time on his phone.
5:23 AM.
He needed to apologize for losing his temper. For breaking that glass. For yelling at her.
Even if everything he'd said was true.
Even if she was blind to what was happening between them.
He'd still been out of line.
Set yourself straight, he thought bitterly. Be the good husband. The one who doesn't make waves.
He swung his legs out of bed and padded to the bathroom, turning on the cold water and splashing it on his face.
His reflection stared back at him—dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight with exhaustion and frustration.
When did I become this person?
The man who swallowed his feelings. Who apologized for having needs. Who accepted scraps of attention and called it a marriage.
He dried his face and headed to the kitchen.
Atticus moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
Coffee first—the expensive blend Lyra preferred, made exactly the way she liked it.
Then breakfast. Something light but nutritious. Avocado toast, scrambled eggs with herbs, fresh fruit.
The same breakfast he made her every Sunday when she actually came to the table instead of eating at her desk.
He plated everything beautifully—because that's what he did. Made things nice for her.
Created moments she rarely appreciated.
The coffee maker beeped.
Atticus poured two cups. One for her, one for him.
Then he stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the breakfast he'd prepared for his work-obsessed wife, and wondered if she'd even notice.
Probably not.
But he'd do it anyway.
Because that's what invisible husbands did.
They kept trying.
Even when no one was watching.
Even when no one cared.