พรอมต์

Interior. Modern American kitchen. Late afternoon. Warm golden light filters through wide windows, casting long shadows across white marble countertops. A man in his early forties, dark hair, rumpled dress shirt, stands at the kitchen island — calm, still, but coiled with quiet intensity. He sets a bunch of yellow roses down on the counter between himself and the woman across from him. An older woman stands near the stove behind him, gripping a wooden spoon with both hands, watching. The wife, dressed in a cream blouse, arms crossed, lifts her chin slightly — holding ground she's already lost. A briefcase sits on the floor where it was dropped. No one moves. The older woman lowers her eyes. The wife's jaw tightens. The man speaks first, low and even: "Apologize to her. Right now." A beat of silence. The wife exhales through her nose, looks at the older woman, and says quietly: "I'm sorry. What I said was cruel." No logos, no text, no watermarks, no signage.

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Interior. Modern American kitchen. Late afternoon. Warm golden light filters through wide windows, casting long shado...

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