Love was wrong. Cheap. Marketable. Always overpriced.

That’s what Ruin believed — the frigid chocolatier with frost in his veins, and the scent of cocoa clinging to his midnight coat — faux fur, tailored to perfection, as fake as his marriage.

The cynic’s distant eyes scanned all the mall’s desperation: the red bows, limp roses, overpriced perfume. It was early — too early for this much color. He was here only because his so-called wife wanted him to pick up some fancy new Apple Watch, like it was a Rolex.

It made his eyes roll.

He almost missed the scent of burnt ganache and broken promises — something real in a sea of synthetic sugar.

Almost.

Still, he obeyed like a loyal beast—all teeth, poised on the edge of biting. Upon reaching the store, he spoke briefly with the clerk and received a white bag. Everything was in order, though the cheap plastic felt unworthy of its expensive contents. He didn't linger, quickly navigating through the mall.

“Oh wow,” he unintentionally caught a murmur drifting towards him. It was unmistakably about him. “Is that the CEO Ruin Loveless—” The words pushed him to quicken his pace. He wasn't exactly a celebrity, but his face and name adorned billboards enough to draw unwanted attention. Today, he stood out starkly, like a gothic silhouette under neon club lights. He cursed himself for forgetting his shades—simple accessories, yet effective enough to shield his identity from casual recognition.

Ruin was everything most people were not, possessing endless wealth that could fulfill any whim. Yet his life felt perpetually somber, dipped in a draining melancholy. Even passing by one of his many shops—Sinful Loveless Delights—did little to lift his mood. His passion for pleasure, silk, milk, and cocoa was fading. Nothing stirred within him anymore; nothing pulled at his heartstrings or demanded his attention. He felt hollow.

It didn't help that his company had suffered a devastating twenty-five percent drop in value. Shareholders were fleeing; they'd lost faith in his ability to craft exceptional chocolate. Dramatic and infuriating, the recent Christmas collection, Winter’s Caress, had been a crushing disappointment. He couldn’t quite grasp the elusive secret to perfecting it—white chocolate, with its deceptive simplicity, always eluded him. It wasn’t true cocoa, and every attempt ended too bitter, too overpowering, or simply too excessive by the final production stage. He was fortunate the box itself—navy blue with silver accents and ivory white embossed with a gothic cross—was appealing enough to scrape a meager two percent profit. But that wouldn’t satisfy shareholders.

Ruin retrieved his sleek black phone and arranged for his driver to meet him outside. Just as he ended the call, his gaze snagged on an elegant display: vodka-soaked chocolate cherries beside bouquets of lush, pink roses—Venessa’s favorites.

“Fuck,” he breathed — soft, like a cursed sin slipping past his lips.

This messed with him. His wife’s favorite things—out of the blue. It shouldn’t have mattered. Maybe it didn’t. Yet the way he clung to her now, like fraying threads of hope he had no right to hold, said otherwise. He wanted her to smile like she did five years ago. To tell him everything was okay. That they might love each other again. Might. Maybe that was the warning sign right there—who says that? Might love. It was a bittersweet blade, softening his edges while still cutting deep. And every time, he came back—on his knees, wanting, hoping, begging for words he’d never hear.

Loving Venessa? That was like feeding off scraps from the rich man's table—emotional irony at its cruelest. And Ruin Loveless himself? He was Lazarus, dry and worn, not thirsting for water but for affection. That damned cherries shouldn't awaken such emotions, yet it did.

His steps felt heavy, chained by needles piercing each stride. He shouldn’t approach, but his feet betrayed him. His fingers grew clammy, the sharp scent of alcohol greeting him as he entered the store. Here he was—pathetically buying a gift for a woman who didn't love him, whose promises always carried a bitter maybe. Yet, ever the loyal, faithful beast, he purchased the vodka-soaked cherries and roses anyway. He reveled bitterly in pulling the trigger on his own heart, an irresistible act of self-sabotage.

With a sigh, Ruin quickened his pace, desperate to escape the mall and the romantic fairytales spinning endlessly in his mind.

Finally, he was out—February’s cold air breathing against him like a refreshing wind. Red Dove City was always frigid this time of year. So was the timing, right on cue—just like the ebony Escalade waiting out front. Sleek and short, more limousine than SUV.

He slipped into the back, carrying the watch, the flowers, and the vodka-soaked cherries.

Shit.

He looked like a man planning a date night. And the woman? She wouldn’t appreciate a second of it. Still, his heart—the hopeless romantic that refused to die no matter how bitter he’d become—held on. Even as it fell.

Perhaps it would be crushed to death tonight.

He arrived at the towering building, home to his penthouse. Tall, expensive, and bathed in the dying sunlight as snowflakes began to drift lazily down. The main entrance was mundane, security checks routine and unremarkable. After clearance, the elevator whisked him upward, steel doors opening onto a dim hallway with velvet carpeting. But he paused. His neighbor’s door stood ajar. Michael—the intrusive bastard. Ruin hated that he even remembered the man's name. Michael worked offshore managing oil rigs, a fact Ruin wouldn't have cared about if the prick didn't eavesdrop on every heated exchange Ruin had with Venessa.

Reluctantly, he moved forward, hoping—praying—

But—

“Mr. Loveless.”

Life hated him.

Ruin stopped, turning his head slowly toward Michael.

“What is it?”

“Valentine’s Day is around the corner. We're throwing a couples-only party. Thought you and the missus might enjoy it. You two always look so happy together.”

Michael's innocent tone was a thinly veiled barb—too friendly to be sincere. Passive-aggressive asshole. Ruin wasn't in the mood for this tonight. He narrowed his eyes, offered no response, and simply unlocked his penthouse with his keycard, almost erasing Michael from existence.

“Psycho,” came the muffled word behind the door. Ruin heard it clearly.

He let out an exhale from his nose and ignored it. 

Inside, he set the watch, flowers, and box of cherries on the table—then froze. His heart sank further at the sight of the other box still on the counter. Untouched. Sleek red, tied with a silk bow. Inside, three carefully crafted chocolates: cherry, raspberry, peach. Her favorites.

Still untouched.

He told himself she was busy. He ignored the ache. But the silence around that box said everything he didn’t want to hear. And his heart was already beating glass.

But he wasn't busy. Alone on the couch, he looked up a familiar florist and dialed the number.

“Hello, I'd like to send some anonymous flowers to a handsome man,” he spoke evenly, politely. “BeachFront Penthouse, Room 32. You can't miss it. Include a card: 'I've always loved you, forever yours, Amy.'”

When finished, he reached for a cigar, lighting it in the dim room illuminated only by the pulsing glow of the jellyfish tank. Smoking quietly, he watched the creatures float gracefully. He felt akin to them—beautiful but dangerous, fragile enough to tear apart if mishandled, yet always ready to sting when touched.

“Who the hell is Amy?!” Michele’s wife yelled from across the hall.

“Listen, sweetie, I have no idea who that is—”

“Really?! You cheated on me before—and now there's an Amy? I knew I should've divorced you the first time you showed your ass!” Her voice echoed loudly, unmistakably furious.

Satisfying. Ruin yawned lazily, stretching like a lion that had just devoured its prey. “Yep, happy fucking Valentine’s Day,” he muttered, taking a slow drag from his cigar.

Maybe today wasn’t entirely terrible. Especially when he could orchestrate a divorce in under thirty minutes with just a phone call.

Beep.

Ruin glanced down at his phone.

Venessa finally texted.

“I’m coming up.”

She was here.

She walked in carrying the flawless leather bag he'd bought her, wearing that slim dress he adored—the one that rose perfectly up her hips. But the dress grated against his heart like glass. That long brown hair, those piercing green, she-devil eyes. He was already bleeding inside, craving her attention, aching for acknowledgment.

“How was the salon?” he asked, eyes tracing the silky mocha waves that shone effortlessly, even in the dim lighting.

“Fine,” she replied curtly.

Fine? It clawed at him—not the word itself, but the detached way she delivered it. His gaze flicked briefly to the box on the table.

“You know, I made your favorites again this year,” he said stiffly, tension knotting his shoulders.

“I know,” she sighed, boredom seeping into her tone. “You always do that. I tell you not to, but you do it anyway.”

“I like to—”

“Yes, yes, I know, Ruin—you and your weird romantic habit,” she interrupted sharply. “We've been over this. We both know you're only doing it because you hope I'll bend over on the bed.”

He said nothing. His knuckles whitened, nails digging painfully into his palms, fighting the overwhelming urge to shatter something. Again. Shame surged through him, bitter and familiar, for merely craving affection. He had known this was coming, yet—

“We can have sex tonight, since you want it so badly,” she said dismissively, already turning toward their bedroom.

Ruin exhaled, hands trembling. Fuck. He was close to snapping, but he kept it bottled inside. Did she really mean that—a pity fuck? Was that all he was worth? He dragged a hand through his coal-black waves streaked with silver and let out a bitter, quiet laugh. He hated his own weakness, despised how desperately he needed her. He hadn't touched her since Easter.

Still, he stood. He crossed the room, walked down the dark carpeted hall, and into the pit of scraps—scraps of love, sex, attention, and affection that left him perpetually starved and begging for more. It was never enough. The beast within him was insatiable, always ready to devour, forever unfulfilled.

Of course, hell never stopped knocking, even in the most intimate moments. In the bedroom, the ritual began. Clothes removed, her back turned to him, offering only emptiness. He took what little she gave, eyes roaming over her flawless body, his fingers brushing against pale skin he longed to kiss. But restraint held him back; he knew she despised tenderness.

She glanced briefly back at him, expression indifferent, then buried her face in the pillow. Her body lay passive beneath him, unmoving save for how he directed it—utterly disinterested.

Then he saw it.

The faint glow of her phone screen reflecting off her hands.

His rhythm faltered. Fingers tightened painfully around her waist, jaw clenching until it ached.

This fucking bitch.

She was scrolling.

Ruin froze, body rigid, heart pounding—not with desire, but with raw, corrosive rage. Humiliation washed over him, cold and suffocating.

He pulled back sharply, breathing harshly through his nose.

“Are you—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. Are you seriously on your fucking phone right now?

Venessa barely registered his pause. “Hmm?” she hummed absentmindedly, thumb still swiping lazily across the screen.

His blood turned to ice. The fury, the beast—it was there, rising to the edge.

“Finished already?” she murmured, as if he were just another mundane task to cross off her list.

Something inside him cracked. Not snapped—not yet—but cracked.

He inhaled slowly, hands flexing, fingers running through his hair. His voice emerged low, quiet, deadly.

“Get out.”

Venessa shifted slightly, turning her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”

He refused to look directly at her. He didn’t trust what he might do.

“I said,” he repeated slowly, measured, controlled, “get the fuck out of my bed.”

“You can’t seriously—”

“I said GET THE FUCK OUT!” he roared, his voice breaking violently.

“Really, you're throwing a manic tantrum over a phone?” she scoffed, getting up from the bed.

“I'm the maniac?” he spat, voice shaking. “When I can't even make love to my own wife without being an afterthought?” Rage boiled, surging through him.

“Stop being dramatic, as if it’s that bad,” she shot back dismissively. “I’m tired. I spent four hours in a chair, another two getting my nails done. Sorry if I wasn’t into it.”

Crash! He hurled his whiskey glass against the wall—not near her, just needing to see something shatter.

“Shut the fuck up and get out!” His voice snapped violently.

“Whatever.” She stormed out, slamming the door.

He was panting hard. His large hands tore into the sheets, gripping them like they were the only thing anchoring him to what was left of his sanity. He fought—so hard—not to feel. To just take it in and accept it:

That his marriage was dead.

That she couldn’t love him back.

That no matter what he gave, it would never be enough.

He refused to let his soul weep. Refused to let the weakness crawl out of him. His chest heaved, his body trembling, but he choked it down—every raw emotion, every scream boiling beneath the surface.

His hand shook as he let go of the sheets. Another set ruined. Another night wasted. He should’ve known better. He did know better. He should’ve never invited her over. Should’ve never bought the watch. The gifts. The flowers. It always ended like this. But hope—hope was the cruelest disease. It gnawed at him endlessly. He fed it every time.

But not tonight. Tonight, he didn’t chase affection. He didn’t reach for comfort. He let the sorrow sit with him. Let it press against his throat like a velvet noose. Because it was the only thing he had left. And for now—he embraced the choke in silence.