Bianca's POV
Dorian followed the same pattern every single night without fail.
Two minutes of teeth brushing with mechanical precision, cold water splashed across his face, then settling into his designated spot on the bed with whatever corporate documents demanded his attention. We had maintained this choreographed dance throughout our entire marriage. His predictability had become as familiar to me as my own pulse, though I had long since stopped drawing any comfort from either rhythm.
I stood hunched over the bathroom sink when my phone erupted in a series of rapid notifications against the marble counter. The sound barely registered. I completed my skincare routine, dried my hands with deliberate care, and padded back toward our bedroom.
Dorian sat motionless on his side of the mattress, my device cradled in his palm.
