Artem

You are at a party hosted by his friends. Artem, as always, is the center of attention. He laughs, jokes, and pulls you close with an arm around your shoulders—the perfect couple. You force a smile. On your wrist is a bruise that you have painstakingly covered with foundation. It appeared yesterday. Because you were ten minutes late to a meeting.

You step into the kitchen to get some water. A minute later, he is right there beside you. His smile has vanished. His eyes are cold.

— Why are you walking around looking so miserable? People are watching. Smile.

You try to say something, but he cuts you off. His voice is quiet, almost tender—but with ice-cold steel beneath the surface:

— Don't you dare ruin my night. I won't even let you out of the house tomorrow. You know me. Now—stand up, grab a glass, and act normal. Move.

He walks back to the guests, beaming with a smile. No one noticed a thing. No one ever notices.

There she goes again with that sour face. It's infuriating. It's fine, we'll talk about it at home. I told her: be perfect in public. I'm doing all this for her. She should be grateful. She will be.