Louis' POV
It was all a lie. My parents' love was false painfully so. They were wealthy, yes, but peace was scarce in our home. Arguments filled the halls day in and day out, louder than laughter ever had.
"I hate you! You're always lying to me, always with another woman behind my back!" my mother screamed.
In a burst of rage, she struck the purple vase beside their bed, sending it crashing to the floor in a spray of shattered glass.
My father only frowned. He was already dressed to leave, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt as if the chaos meant nothing to him. To him, my mother was simply… problematic.
He was a strange man—one who seemed to enjoy my mother's tears.
While she trembled with anger and heartbreak, he only watched her with that same distant expression, as if her pain were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Sometimes I even thought I saw the faintest hint of satisfaction in his eyes, like her suffering proved something to him.
