A month passed.
We were husband and wife in name, but in every other sense, we were strangers walking parallel lines. Sharing space, but not lives.
Mira and the rest of the staff adjusted quickly. Meals were served at two different times. Richard left early and returned late. I worked through most of my evenings, and if we crossed paths, it was always short, always formal.
Yet something had changed since that night at the restaurant.
He began to speak more often—brief comments at breakfast, a question in the hallway, sometimes even a dry remark that almost passed for humor.
The silences between us were still long. But they were no longer empty.
It was a Friday evening when Mira knocked on my study door.
"Ma'am, Mr. Calein has asked if you're free to accompany him tonight."
I looked up from my screen, startled. "Tonight?"
She nodded. "A formal event. His assistant sent over an outfit."
I stared at the wardrobe for a moment, unsure how to respond.
Mira smiled faintly. "I'll bring the dress."
The dress was black. Elegant. Minimal. The kind of thing that cost more than my rent used to be.
I hadn't worn something like that since… well, never.
Richard was already waiting in the car when I came down, dressed in a dark suit and navy tie. He looked at me briefly when I entered, gave a nod that might've been approval—or habit.
"You look…" he paused, then corrected himself. "It suits you."
That was the closest thing I'd received to a compliment in weeks.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"A gallery opening. One of the board members is a patron."
"And I'm here because…"
"Because it's what married couples do."
There was no malice in the statement. Just observation.
The gallery was packed. Lights. Cameras. People who laughed too loud and drank too much.
Richard stayed close, hand on the small of my back in public. We moved through the crowd like we were choreographed.
Everyone noticed him. And when they noticed me, it was with the hungry eyes of curiosity.
"She's the wife?"
"The new one, right?"
"I didn't think he'd ever marry."
He didn't seem to hear them. Or maybe he was just used to ignoring things that didn't serve him.
A woman in a glittering red gown approached. Late thirties, sharp features, confident smile.
"Richard," she purred. "And this must be the mysterious bride."
"Lara," he said simply. "My wife."
I offered my hand. She took it with a kind of practiced condescension.
"I'm Alina. Richard and I go way back."
I nodded politely.
Alina turned to him. "We should catch up sometime. Without the crowd."
Richard's reply was swift. "We're busy these days."
She raised a perfectly drawn eyebrow. "Well. Congratulations."
When she walked away, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"She's pretty," I said without thinking.
"She's poison," he replied.
There was no emotion in his voice.
Only memory.
After the event, we drove home in silence.
But it wasn't tense.
It was thoughtful.
When we pulled up to the house, I turned to him. "Do you regret it?"
"Regret what?"
"Us. This arrangement."
He didn't answer for a long time.
Then, "No."
I opened the car door, stepped out, and walked to the entrance.
When I looked back, he was still in the car. Watching me.
That night, I stood at the mirror in my room, still in the black dress, and stared at my reflection.
I didn't recognize the woman in the glass.
She looked… steady.
Not happy. Not in love.
But no longer afraid.