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when i say that i loathe the FMC loosing her powers at the end of the series trope, NEVER, am i talking about my lord and saviour Alina Starkov. that was the perfect ending for her and i will die on this hill
Summary: On paper, Zayne was the perfect husband. Attentive, kind, successful. But whenever he was around MC, he looked at her like she was the centre of his world. And that raised the question. What in the world were you - his wife - supposed to be?
Pairings: Non MC x Zayne, MC x Sylus, Blythe x Caleb
Tags: Angst, hurt, comfort, MNDI, soft smut, piv sex, AU, no evol, the LADS are in their 30s, it gets worse before it gets better, emotional infidelity
Word count: 4.7k
Dividers by @orieriee and @diviniyae
A/N: Thank you so much for your comments! 💖 I included a little more about the Reader into this one. I hope it gives some insight into why she tries so hard with Zayne. She is an unreliable narrator and is motivated by her want to justify Zayne's actions in an attempt to create what she sees as a safe environment. She ignores the obvious red flags to maintain the illussion of happiness. For her, admitting the truth means her entire sense of safety and sense of normality collapses.
Hope you enjoy this chapter! It got too long, so I decided to split it into two.
Married life had quickly settled into a quiet, distant routine. Zayne’s demanding career as a world-renowned surgeon meant he was rarely home on time, a reality you tried hard to accept as the unavoidable price of his calling. Your mornings now followed a strict, unyielding pattern to accommodate his schedule.
You would wake up an hour before when you needed to wake up and cook breakfast while he went for his morning run. You would eat together in pleasant efficiency, then head out to work. You always returned hours before him, pottered around the house, tended your garden, cooked dinner that would slowly cool, and tried desperately to stay awake. Late at night, you would finally feel the mattress dip as he crawled into bed beside you. And that was it.
On rare occasions, Zayne would take you out on a date. It was always perfectly orchestrated. Perhaps a nice evening at an expensive restaurant filled with pleasant, polite conversation. A movie night complete with popcorn and various sweets. A weekend ride into the countryside where you two would share a quiet picnic.
Sex, if and when it happened, was amazing. He made sure that you came at least once. The physical encounters with Zayne were a confusing mix of intense gratification and heartbreaking distance. When he did touch you, his precision in anything he put his mind to translated into an overwhelming, breathless mastery that left your body entirely consumed. He was unfailingly thorough, using his hands and mouth with a focused dedication that ensured your pleasure, never allowing the encounter to end until he felt your body shatter beneath him.
Yet, beneath the heat of his touch, his passion felt deliberate. A flawless execution of a procedure. Something that he did because he was meant to. There was no fun, mess or chaos. No bumping noses or awkwardness. No bursts of affection, no vulnerability in his eyes, and no soft, unprompted whispers in the dark. As you lay in his arms afterward, you couldn't shake the feeling that he was merely performing the duties of a husband, leaving his heart entirely untouched.
You were worried at first when the occasions when you were intimate with your husbands became scarce and far between. But then you reminded yourself that settling into a routine meant that passion became less of a priority. Besides, how could you complain when your husband was out there saving lives?
You were grateful for your life. To any outsider looking in, it would seem flawless.
You genuinely loved your job. Being a teacher was not everyone’s cup of tea, but you found true joy in working with children. You loved your friends, too. Blythe could not spend as much time with you as before now that she was pregnant with her second child, but you had recently reconnected with a few close friends from university.
And then, of course, there was MC.
Despite your deep-seated insecurities and how much you still hated the soft, rare look on Zayne’s face whenever her name was casually mentioned, MC was a great person. She invited you to hang out with her and her co-workers Tara and Simone. When you mentioned that you weren’t really sure what would look good in the sparsely decorated house, she whisked you off on a shopping trip, pushing you to buy the gorgeous things to decorate your home that both of you knew were more to your taste than Zayne’s. Not that Zayne commented on anything that you purchased. When he was actually around, he seemed to treat your house as more of a space where he’d spend time between surgeries rather than a home.
And, of course, you loved your husband. How could you not? He was everything a dutiful husband was supposed to be. Except sometimes, late at night as you lay alone in your marital bed waiting for him, you wondered. Wondered if he truly cared about you as a person, or if he just cared about portraying a certain image of a perfect life.
But you always told yourself that it was fine. Your life was fine. You were fine. Zayne was fine. If anything, you felt that thinking otherwise was you being ungrateful. Many women would kill to have such a comfortable, stable life and a secure relationship. It was certainly better than the relationship your parents had.
To this day you were unsure why your mother hadn’t left your father. To everyone else, he was a charming, handsome man who doted on his beautiful, elegant wife and somewhat plain, unremarkable daughter. But behind closed doors, he was a tyrant who took out all his frustrations with his life on you. He had never hit you. The torture was psychological only. You still remembered vividly how you felt when the call about his fatal car accident came. You didn’t feel sadness, just relief. And what kind of a monster feels that way about her own father?
Perhaps it was the lingering guilt that pushed you to try harder in your marriage. Or perhaps it was the feeling that you could never measure up to the man who chose you. Whatever it was, you knew that you won the husband lottery. You were with a man who never shouted, belittled you or let others disrespect you, and treated you with care. Perhaps your relationship was not as emotionally close as you hoped and dreamed. But you were going to try harder, pour more of yourself in it, and make sure that it would eventually become the real, deep love that you craved.
And for now, you contented yourself with spending an occasional afternoon with Blythe, Caleb, and their toddler. With Blythe heavily pregnant with their second son, Caleb had managed to take a significant chunk of time off from his military duties to be with his growing family. It must have been incredibly difficult to arrange, but he had secured a rare three-month leave out of the six he had originally pushed for.
“Argh, I’m such a whale!” Blythe groaned, dropping rather inelegantly onto the sofa beside you. “And you look so pretty and just look at your perfect legs! I kinda hate you right now.”
“Don’t say that,” you laughed gently, squeezing her hand. “You are absolutely glowing.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. The miracle of life and all that,” she scoffed playfully. Then, she raised her voice, directing it toward the kitchen. “I swear, this is the last one, Caleb! I’m not doing this again!”
“That’s what you said the last time!” Caleb called back, his voice full of easy amusement.
“Well, I mean it this time!” Blythe yelled back, crossing her arms over her round belly. “Don’t you dare come near me for the next ten years!”
Caleb grinned as he walked into the living room. Without a word of complaint, he popped a spoonful of ice cream directly into her mouth to quiet her down, before handing her the rest of the bowl.
“Even if I have ice cream?” he teased.
Blythe swallowed, a smile blooming on her face. “Only if you have ice cream.”
Watching them, a familiar, quiet ache bloomed in your chest. You looked down at your hands, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I wish Zayne was around more.”
“Is he still working himself stupid?” Caleb asked. His expression softened as he noticed how nervous you were. He handed you a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. “And here I thought that Mr. Snowman would actually allow himself to be human from time to time.”
“He’s just really busy,” you murmured, your fingers tightening around the warm coffee mug Caleb had handed you. You forced a small, practiced smile to your lips, automatically stepping into the familiar role of an understanding wife. “There’s been so many complex cardiac cases at the hospital lately. He’s one of the few surgeons who can handle them.”
Blythe rolled her eyes affectionately over her bowl of ice cream, though her gaze remained sharp and perceptive. “Hun, lives are always on the line. He was a workaholic when he was twenty, and he’s a workaholic now. But he’s a married man now. He needs to realize his schedule affects you.”
“It’s fine, really,” you insisted, your voice carrying a desperate edge of reassurance. “I knew what I was signing up for. And I really want him to succeed. Besides, when he is home, he’s incredibly attentive. He always remembers exactly what I like, and he takes care of everything.”
Caleb sat down in a nearby armchair, holding his own cup of coffee. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his violet, striking eyes studying you with quiet concern. Unlike Blythe's bluntness, Caleb's approach was almost brotherly in its gentleness.
“Look, we all respect Zayne’s dedication,” Caleb said. “But even the military gives us leave to be with our families. A marriage can’t survive on the scraps of someone’s time, no matter how noble their job is. You’re allowed to miss your husband. You’re allowed to want him ‘round.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat and stared down at the slice of cake on your plate, suddenly unable to meet Caleb’s eyes. If they only knew that it wasn’t just the long hours that hurt.
“Anyway, enough about Zayne,” you said quickly, forcing a brighter note into your voice as you set your coffee mug down on the table. “We should be focusing on the two of you. Three months of uninterrupted family time is incredible, Caleb. How did you even manage to pull that off with your superiors?”
Caleb stared at you for a heartbeat too long, clearly recognizing the pivot for what it was, but he let it go. He offered a warm, easy smile and leaned back. “Let’s just say I might have done a few favours for the commanding officer. Plus, I think they are scared of Mrs. Xia here.”
“Damn right,” Blythe muttered happily, taking another large spoonful of ice cream. “But seriously, it’s been amazing having him here to help chase our toddler around. I don't think my back could take it.”
You listened to them talk, nodding and smiling in all the right places as the conversation shifted to the chaotic joy of raising a family. It was obvious that they were a team. Navigating the challenges of Caleb's career together without losing their warmth or their connection. The contrast between their genuine, messy affection and your own pristine, silent marriage was deafening.
By the time you finally said your goodbyes and stepped out into the cool evening air, the weight of loneliness was entirely suffocating. Sitting in the driver's seat of your car, you gripped the steering wheel.
A marriage can’t survive on the scraps of someone’s time.
You wiped your eyes with a rough, jerky movement and took a deep breath. There was no use comparing their family dynamic with the one that you had. Every marriage was different. As you drove off, you once again reminded yourself that everything was fine.
You spent the rest of the day losing yourself in your garden, tending to blooms big and small. Wiping your hands on a cloth, you stood back to admire your hard work. Vines of star jasmine flirted with the pink variety, both climbing a vertical archway lush with glossy, dark green leaves and fragrant petals. Nearby sat the evergreen shrubs of Arabian jasmine, which you would soon harvest, dry, and mix with green tea for a calming floral brew. These jasmines were your absolute favourites. Though you would never admit that out loud, of course! Every flower was tended with love, but the abundance of jasmine was deliberate. It was your quiet trap to lure your husband outside, to convince him to sit with you on the swing you had installed a few weeks ago. You could picture it perfectly. The two of you surrounded by greenery and fresh, floral scents, sipping tea and eating the delicate pastries he loved so much.
Smiling, you checked the time. Zayne wasn't due home for hours. There was plenty of time left for your secret.
Walking into the far corner of the garden, you dug a little and unearthed your diary. It was stored in a waterproof container and wrapped up tightly. You knew that perhaps it made you objectively crazy to hide your diary. But you needed an outlet for your emotions and didn’t know what Zayne would think if he ever happened to come across it.
You hadn’t always hidden your thoughts away like that. As a quiet, easily startled child that could not make friends and once she did was uprooted and thrust into a different school, you still needed someone to talk to. So diaries became your companions. The things you documented were innocent enough. Dreams, Christmas and Birthday gifts, stories that you wrote about stories that you had enjoyed reading. But as you grew older, you documented your raw, unfiltered emotions. And that was your mistake.
Even now, you could still see your father’s face as he held your open diary, its pages violated by his angry, prying eyes.
“Is this what you really think of us? Huh? That we are unreasonable? That we are unfair? After all we've done for you over the years? Answer me!”
Hot tears had rolled down your cheeks as your lips trembled, your eyes glued to the floor.
“I said answer me! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
You had forced yourself to look up. He was standing too close, almost thrusting the diary into your face. “I bet this is what you go around telling people, too! You ungrateful little shit.”
“I—”
“Well?”
“I don’t.”
“Liar! I’ll cure you of that!”
With a sharp blink, you shook your head, forcing the bitter memory to dissolve back into the past. You stood up, walked over to the garden swing, and took off your shoes. Pulling your knees tight against your chest, you promised yourself you wouldn't think of him anymore. That life was gone. Dead and buried. You had a wonderful life now, and a kind husband. Yet, sometimes, when you looked across the table at Zayne as he silently scrolled through his phone during breakfast or the occasional dinner, you deeply wished you could share more of yourself with him. Perhaps, one day, you would.
You were really good at lying to yourself. Practice makes perfect, after all. But no matter how much you convinced yourself that you were happy with the way things were, as days passed and the air started to grow cooler, you could no longer ignore the truth.
The illusion finally shattered on a Saturday night in the frozen food aisle of the grocery store. As you stood there alone, trying to decide on an ice cream treat to eat by yourself, a sudden, staggering realization hit you. The last time you and your husband had been intimate was seven months ago. And you were only two years into your marriage.
Your immediate knee-jerk reaction was to blame yourself, wondering if the lack of physical warmth was entirely your fault. Because you hated confrontation and knew how exhausted he always was, you had stayed silent for months to avoid becoming a cliché. That is, the nagging, demanding wife who puts her own needs before her husband’s career.
No, you told yourself, that wasn’t who you were. You just weren’t trying hard enough. Shaking off the sudden loneliness, you decided to surprise him. Instead of spending another Saturday evening alone watching a film, you put on your favourite summer dress, the one that had his gaze lingering on your back a moment too long to be accidental, packed a basket full of desserts, and drove straight to the hospital. You were determined to bridge the distance between you in whatever way you could.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Li is not here," the receptionist told you politely when you arrived.
"Oh, I see," you stammered, caught off guard. "I thought he had two more surgeries tonight."
"No, he clocked out about an hour ago."
You quickly thanked the receptionist, commenting on how forgetful you were and hoping desperately that she didn’t notice how tight and fragile your smile had become.
Sitting down on a bench just outside the hospital entrance, putting down the useless basket of sweets beside you, you felt a heavy, suffocating dread settle deep in your chest.
If he wasn't working, was it possible that he was avoiding you?
It just didn’t make any sense. With how completely exhausted he was every day after work, surely Zayne would want to get home and unwind in his own space as early as he possibly could.
No, you reasoned, you were just overthinking things again. You tended to do that. He was probably already home, walking through the door right now and wondering where you were.
And yet, when you returned to the dark, silent house forty minutes later, he still wasn't there.
Feeling a sudden wave of desperation, and terrified that something terrible might have happened to the man you loved, you called his phone. It went straight to voicemail. Feeling increasingly frantic, you called again, and again, and again.
With nowhere else to turn, you realized there was only one person left who might know his habits outside the hospital. You dialled her number.
"Hello?" MC answered on the second ring.
"Um, hi! I’m so sorry to call you out of the blue like this," you stammered, your throat tightening as you tried to keep your voice steady. "But I was wondering if you might know where Zayne is. He’s not at work, he’s not answering his phone, and I’m just… I'm really worried something happened to him."
In the background, you suddenly heard the distinct rustle of clothing and movement. "Wait, hang on. No, Sylus, I can't right now," MC whispered. Then, cutting clearly through the line, you heard Sylus mutter a single, low word: "Idiot." MC quickly shushed him, her tone sharp.
Your face burned with an immediate, agonizing flush of humiliation. Was Sylus calling you an idiot? Was he mocking you for being a clueless, desperate wife who had to call her husband's childhood friend just to track him down on a Saturday night? You felt incredibly small, stripped of all your pride in a single second.
"I'm sorry, I don't know exactly where Zayne is right now," MC said, her voice laced with almost sisterly protective worry. "But he sometimes does research or clears his head outside the hospital walls, so that's probably why his phone is turned off. You know how he is! Getting so completely caught up with his work that he forgets everything else around him."
"Sure. Yes. Thank you," you whispered. You hung up the phone, letting it drop against the sofa cushions, and stared out into the empty night. The phone screen dimmed, casting a faint blue glow over your hands before going entirely dark.
You sat on the edge of the sofa in the living room. You shivered, still in your light summer dress. The house was cold. Zayne preferred the thermostat kept at a precise, lower temperature. He said it was a habit from years in sterile, heavily climate-controlled operating theatres.
Your face still burned with the memory of the call. “No, Sylus, I can't right now.” And then that single, low word.
Idiot.
Was Sylus annoyed that your frantic call interrupted whatever private moment they were sharing? Was he annoyed that you were taking up his wife’s time and asking inane questions about your husband’s whereabouts? Or had he been looking at the situation from the outside, his sharp, cynical intelligence instantly diagnosing the pathetic reality of your marriage? A wife sitting alone in a dark house at ten o'clock on a Saturday night, calling her husband’s lifelong crush to ask where he was.
You looked down at your lap.
The soft, pale blue cotton dress with small embroidered flowers felt entirely ridiculous. It wasn’t meant for someone like you. It was meant for someone full of hope and laughter, for a woman who felt cherished, loved and seen. On you, it looked like a desperate attempt to play the role of someone else.
Seven months.
How had you let seven months slip by without acknowledging what was really going on? You had spent all that time telling yourself that everything was fine. You had swept all your worries under a rug and focused on keeping to a routine. You woke up early, made his coffee, watched the disciplined line of his back as he left for his morning runs, and convinced yourself that this structured, peaceful co-existence was what mature, healthy love looked like.
You had poured yourself into your work at the school. You had leaned on your friends. And you had genuinely tried with MC. Perhaps that was the most painful part. She wasn't a villain. If she had been cruel or dismissive, it would have been so much easier to hate her. And although MC could be careless and difficult, she was kind. She had genuinely cared about helping you and including you.
But Zayne’s heart didn't care how much you tried. It seemed that no matter what you did, his heart did not belong to you.
“He sometimes does research outside the hospital,” MC had said, her voice full of gentle rationalization. “You know how he is.”
It was a beautiful lie. But you wanted to face the truth now, no matter how it made you feel.
Zayne Li did not wander aimlessly. He was a man of absolute precision, of rigorous schedules and micro-managed time. If he was missing for hours after a shift, it was because he had actively chosen to be somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn't here. Somewhere far away from the woman he had legally bound himself to.
The electronic lock on the front door beeped at exactly eleven thirty PM, the mechanical latch sliding back shattered the quiet.
Your breath caught in your throat. Your entire body went rigid as the door swung open, admitting a gust of night air from the hallway. Zayne stepped into the apartment looking exactly as he always did. He was perfectly put-together, sharp, and imposing. He wore a dark, tailored coat over his suit, his medical bag held firmly in his left hand. His silver-rimmed glasses caught the faint light of the hallway before he closed the door behind him.
He paused in the entryway, his hazel-green eyes tracing the dark living room until they locked onto you sitting on the sofa. He didn't look frantic or apologetic. He didn't look like a man who had accidentally lost track of time. His expression was an unreadable mask.
“You’re still awake,” Zayne said, his voice cutting through the air. He set his bag down on the coffee table and began unbuttoning his coat with slow, deliberate movements. “And the lights are off. Is something wrong with the electricity?”
He didn't mention his phone. He didn't apologize for being late. He didn't even seem to notice the dress or the basket sitting at your feet. He was simply analysing the environment, treating whatever this was like a puzzle to be solved. You sat there in the dark, looking at the flawless, beautiful man, you loved so desperately. And in that moment, you knew with perfect clarity that you had enough.
"You're still up," he repeated, his voice betraying his fatigue. "I told you not to wait up for me."
"I went to the hospital today. You weren't there, Zayne," you said. Your voice was quiet, but the absolute lack of a tremor surprised even you.
He paused, his hand dropping. "I had research to review. I went to a quiet cafe near the hospital to get away from it all."
"Your phone was off."
"The battery died." He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Look, it's been a long day. If this is about me missing dinner again—"
"We haven't slept together in seven months."
The words cut through the room like a physical blade. Zayne froze. The distant mask he always wore seemed to crack for a fraction of a second, his hazel eyes widening slightly before slamming shut again.
"I am a surgeon," he said, his tone tightening, turning defensive. "My schedule is demanding. I am mentally and physically drained when I get home. It isn't personal."
"Isn't it?" You stood up from the couch, finally letting months of buried hurt rise to the surface. "You have enough energy to go running every single morning. You have enough energy to go out of your way for extra research. And you certainly make an effort when it comes to MC."
He frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"I saw the way you looked at MC before we got married," you said, your throat tightening. "I saw the way you looked at her at our own wedding. Whenever she is around, you look at her like she hung the stars. And then you come home to me, and you look right through me."
Zayne’s posture went entirely rigid. "MC is my friend. She is married to Sylus. You are being completely irrational."
"Am I?" You took a step closer to him, refusing to back down. "I called her tonight because I was terrified something happened to you. Do you know what I heard? I heard Sylus in the background calling someone an idiot. Was he talking about you, Zayne? Or was he talking about me, for being stupid enough to marry a man who is clearly in love with someone else?"
Silence fell over the room. Zayne stared at you. His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek. For the first time in your marriage, the distance between you wasn't just a physical absence.
This was war.
The vulnerability you thought you glimpsed vanished, replaced instantly by a cold, impenetrable wall. He straightened, his eyes turning dismissive as he drew himself up to his full height.
"This is completely absurd," Zayne said, his voice becoming dangerously calm, as if he was speaking to someone out of their mind. "You are projecting your own insecurities onto my friendships and my career."
He walked past you, throwing his keys onto the kitchen counter with a loud, sharp clatter that made you flinch.
"I am a surgeon," he continued, turning to face you with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "My days are spent dealing with life-and-death stakes and gruelling physical exhaustion. When I come home, I need peace. I do not have the emotional bandwidth to reassure you because you feel intimidated by MC or because you're overanalysing a passing glance from months ago."
"So, the last seven months are just me overanalysing?" Your voice shook, his words making you angry and giving you the strength to soldier on. "The lack of intimacy, the empty bed, the distance between us… You are telling me that's just all in my head?"
"This is the reality of marrying a doctor," Zayne snapped, his tone entirely devoid of warmth. "I am tired. I am drained. If you wanted a husband who was home by five, you shouldn't have agreed to marry me. My commitment to this marriage is shown in the life I provide for us, not by how many times I can force myself to ask you about your day after a fourteen-hour shift."
He looked at you, his eyes flat and distant, completely denying the emotional vacuum he had left you in.
"Sylus was calling me an idiot. It had absolutely nothing to do with you," Zayne said, his face an unreadable mask. "I am going to sleep in the guest room tonight. I suggest you use the time to calm down."
He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway, closing the guest room door behind him with a firm, decisive click. He left you alone in the dark living room, colder and more isolated than you had ever been.
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