Outside, an SUV waits at the curb—sleek, black, tinted windows reflecting nothing back.
The driver opens the door, and we slide into the back seat.
Arthur chooses the far side.
The space between us feels enormous.
Arthur shifts beside me, adjusting his jacket. For a moment, I think he might say something.
My body reacts before my mind does—turning slightly toward him.
I stop the movement halfway.
He doesn’t speak. He reaches for his phone instead.
The screen lights his face.
I turn back to the window.
I watch his reflection in the tinted glass as he scrolls, replies, re-enters the life he stepped out of just long enough to get married to me.
The car moves.
The city blurs past the window, familiar streets suddenly foreign in the way they do after something irreversible.
My hand rests in my lap, the ring heavy against my skin.
I don't take it off.
I glance at Arthur once.
He doesn't look up.
His jaw is set, expression unreadable. Focused. Controlled.
Exactly the man I remember.
This is my life now.
The silence. The space. The assumption that this will work because it's been structured to.
I think about the first couple—the football player and his bride. How quickly they disappeared. How little fanfare accompanied something so permanent.
I wonder if they're sitting in separate cars right now too.
I wonder if she's feeling the same strange hollowness I am—not regret, exactly, but displacement. Like stepping into a role she auditioned for but never fully understood.
Arthur types something into his phone, frowning slightly.
I want to ask what he's thinking. If this feels as surreal to him as it does to me.
But I don't.
Because asking would break the careful professionalism we've maintained since the moment ERS suggested this.
And I'm not ready to find out what happens when that breaks.
The SUV turns onto a wider street, moving smoothly through traffic.
