I don’t know what I expected instead. Fireworks. Or tearful promises. But instead it's just practicality and mutual advantage.
I mentally inventory what I bring to this arrangement.
I don't list love or attraction. They aren't relevant to the contract.
The irony doesn't escape me.
Two weeks ago, I was his employee, organizing his company for a salary.
Now I'm his wife.
I change into the sleep clothes I packed—plain cotton pajamas, not my usual unicorn print or fuzzy slippers. I'm not ready to be that vulnerable version of myself here. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I lie down fully dressed, on top of the covers. I don't turn off the light.
This feeling—this hollowness mixed with determination—I recognize it. It's the same feeling I had when my college scholarship fell through and I took three jobs to stay enrolled.
When Mom got sick and I coordinated her care while working full-time.
When I realized the executive assistant role was as far as I'd get at Dupree Technologies without an MBA.
I chose this marriage with open eyes. I signed the papers. I accepted the terms. And I will make it work.
Not because it feels good. But because I decided to do it.
I can do this. I am good at difficult things.
The house settles around me, creaking gently as temperature changes and old wood adjusts. Beyond my door, somewhere down the hall, Arthur and Henry exist in their own silent rooms. Connected to me now by law but separated by walls and histories and expectations I can't begin to guess at.
Safe, I remind myself. I am safe here.
I listen to the silence and wonder why safety feels so much like being alone.
