He lives here. It's not a showpiece or a fortress. It's a home that's missing someone to take care of it.
I can do that. I can make this work.
"Your things were delivered this afternoon," Anton says. He's already shrugging off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair in the hallway. "Upstairs, second door on the left. That's the bedroom."
The bedroom. Not your bedroom. Not our bedroom. The bedroom. Like it's a location on a map he's pointing me toward.
"Thank you," I say.
He glances at me. Those pale eyes, blue, I can see that now under the warm light. They move over my face like he's searching for something and not finding it.
"There's a kitchen through there." He nods toward the back of the house. "Help yourself to whatever you need."
"I will. Thank you."
Something tightens in his jaw. "You don't have to keep thanking me."
"I'm being polite."
"You're being trained."
The words land like a slap. Quiet and precise and designed to sting. I hold his gaze and don't let my expression shift, because that's what I know how to do. Absorb the hit. Stay steady. Don't give them anything they can use.
"I'll go unpack," I say.
He nods. Turns away. Disappears down the hallway without another word.
I stand alone in the entryway of my new home, in my wedding dress, holding my overnight bag, and I let myself have exactly five seconds of feeling sorry for myself. Then I straighten my shoulders, pick up my bag, and walk upstairs.
The bedroom is large. A king bed with dark gray sheets, neatly made. A dresser. A window that looks out over the back of the property, where I can see the dark shapes of more trees against the night sky. My boxes are stacked in the corner, labeled in my mother's careful handwriting.
I set my bag on the bed and unzip it. On top of everything else, folded in tissue paper, is a nightgown my mother packed. White satin, soft, with lace around the neckline and hem. Simple. The kind of thing a bride would wear on her wedding night if the wedding night was supposed to mean something.
I fold it carefully, set it aside, and start unpacking.
I hang my clothes in the closet next to Anton's. His side is sparse. Dark suits, dark shirts, everything organized with military precision. I arrange my things on the opposite end, leaving space between his clothes and mine like a buffer zone.
In the bathroom, I find his razor, his toothbrush, a bottle of cologne that smells like spice and smoke. I set my toiletries on the opposite side of the counter. Same buffer zone. Same careful distance.
I change out of my wedding dress, hanging it on the back of the door because I don't know what else to do with it. I put on the nightgown my mother packed. I wash my face, brush my teeth, take down my hair and brush it until it falls in smooth chestnut waves over my shoulders.
Then I sit on the edge of the bed and wait.
Because that's the other thing my mother taught me. The wedding night isn't optional. It's expected. And in a marriage arranged by the council, it's required.
I fold my hands in my lap and keep my breathing even and try not to think about the fact that in a few minutes, a man I metthis morning is going to walk through that door and expect me to give him something I've never given anyone.
The minutes stretch.
Five. Ten. Fifteen.
I hear sounds downstairs. The clink of a glass. Footsteps. The low murmur of a phone call I can't make out.
Twenty minutes.
Thirty.
I shimmy further up the bed and lift my legs up on top of the quilt before I curl onto my side, facing the door, and tuck my hands under the pillow.
