It's better this way.
Safer.
Henry's face flashes briefly in my mind. His expression when I told him Lindsay and I had gotten married. The accusation in his eyes.
I close the thought away before it can fully form.
Children don't need transparency; they need structure.
Henry will adjust.
The benefits will become evident with time. There will be opportunities for explanations later, when the arrangement has proven its worth.
I mentally review the parameters of my new marriage, checking each component for potential weaknesses:
Legal safeguards: comprehensive. The contracts Evelyn provided create a framework that protects both parties while ensuring neither can extract unreasonable value should the arrangement terminate. My attorneys verified every clause.
Public insulation: optimal. Lindsay's lottery win makes her a natural target for attention, but marriage to me places her within my security infrastructure. Meanwhile, her presence provides Henry with female guidance without the messiness of me dating or the vulnerability of becoming emotionally attached.
Domestic stability: superior to current state. Lindsay's demonstrated competence with scheduling, organization, andinterpersonal dynamics. She will bring additional structure to a household that functions well but lacks certain efficiencies.
This marriage requires no emotional surrender. No exposure of vulnerabilities that could be exploited. No expectations beyond what I've explicitly outlined.
This marriage required nothing of me that I can't bear to lose.
I place the photograph back in its box, deliberately turning it face down before closing the lid. This isn't rejection. It's containment. Catherine belongs to a different life—one ended by circumstances I couldn't control.
This life, I can control.
I tighten the lid and put the box back on its shelf.
I complete my evening routine with precision. Teeth brushed for exactly two minutes. Face washed. Five drops of the custom-blended serum my dermatologist prescribes. Pajamas folded and waiting.
When I lie down, sleep comes easily. My mind quiets, satisfied with the day's completion.
Yet somewhere in the space between consciousness and dreams, an unwelcome question surfaces: If this marriage is so perfectly designed, why does the house feel emptier than before?
I dismiss the thought and sink deeper into sleep.
