My Cold-Hearted Husband Wants Me Back

The air in Matilda’s study was as cold as her voice.

Eryx stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, arms folded tightly across his chest. Behind him, the quiet shuffle of expensive heels approached, it was the soft, deliberate rhythm of a woman who never had to rush for anything in her life.

Matilda didn’t sit behind her desk. She sat at the sofa by the fireplace, her reflection clear in the dark glass panel across from him. Regal. Calculating. And already tired of waiting.

"You’ve disappointed me," she said, each word wrapped in silk and steel.

"You’ve been disappointed since the day I was born." Eryx shot back.

Matilda’s eyes didn’t flicker. "Don’t be dramatic. You’ve had every opportunity handed to you."

Eryx turned from the window, the corners of his mouth pulling tight. "Opportunities? Or cages? You handed me expectations dressed as gifts and called it love."

Then, with a bitter twist of his lips, "Oh, wait. There was never any love in your love."

Matilda’s mouth twitched. "You’re probably the same," she said, her tone almost amused. Her gaze rose, sharp and challenging. "I’ve told you before... you take after me. Cold. Calculated. Efficient." She tilted her head slightly, a glint of cruelty in her eye. "Perhaps what you thought was love... was just pity?"

Eryx let out a hollow laugh, the sound devoid of humor. "Then that explains everything," he muttered. "If I’m like you, maybe I should start treating people the way you did, ruthlessly, without a shred of conscience."

Matilda remained seated, chin high with pride as if she were a queen on her throne. "It’s the only way to survive in this world. Sentiment is weakness."