Husband Loses All for Student

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed three times, its somber tones echoing through our silent house. I'd been tossing and turning for hours, the empty space beside me growing colder as the night wore on. Rowan hadn't come to bed again.

I wrapped my silk robe around my shoulders and padded down the hallway toward the soft glow emanating from his study. The door was ajar, and I paused before pushing it open, my heart already knowing what I'd find.

Rowan hunched over his desk, his tall frame curved like a question mark, fingers flying across his keyboard. The blue light from his computer screen cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the dark circles under his eyes. Empty coffee cups littered the surface of his desk—three, no, four of them—alongside scattered papers covered in handwriting that wasn't his.

"You're still up," I said softly, though it wasn't really a question.

He didn't look up. "Obviously."

I stepped into the room, my gaze falling on a notebook with flowing, feminine handwriting. Zara Coleman. My stomach tightened as I recognized her personal notes, the same ones I'd seen her carrying at the university fundraiser last month. Post-it notes in the same handwriting dotted Rowan's computer monitor, some with academic references, others with personal reminders—"Don't forget to add the section on historical context!" followed by a small heart.

"You're working on Zara's paper again," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"She has a deadline." Rowan's fingers never stopped typing. "The conference submission is tomorrow."

"And what about your own research?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. For months, he'd been prioritizing her work over his own, over us.

"This is more important right now."

"More important than sleeping? More important than..." I swallowed hard. "More important than coming to bed with your wife?"

Finally, Rowan stopped typing. He turned toward me, his expression a mixture of annoyance and dismissal that had become all too familiar over our three years of marriage.

"You're being dramatic and needy, Adeline," he said, his voice cold. "This is critical for Zara's career, and by extension, for my reputation as her advisor."

"And what about us?" I asked, hating the tremor in my voice. "What about our marriage?"

Rowan sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "My academic work is more important than your petty jealousies. Zara is my student, nothing more. I've explained this before."

"You stay up all night for her. You barely look at me anymore."

"Because she's doing meaningful work," he snapped. "Not everyone has the luxury of throwing money at charities to feel important."

The words hit like a physical blow. Three years of coldness, of dismissal, of watching him light up when Zara entered a room while barely acknowledging my presence—it all crystallized in that moment.

"I see," I whispered.

Rowan had already turned back to his computer, his attention once again fixed on Zara's paper. I stood