I hope I never see you again, Christopher.

The wedding had no love. It never did.

Christopher grew up knowing his life wasn't his own. Every decision was designed to uphold his family's power. So when the time came, there were no surprises: a date, a contract… and someone he was to call his partner.

It didn't matter who he was. What mattered was what he stood for.

The other heir arrived the same way: cold, calculating, with no choice. From their first encounter, the rejection was mutual. It wasn't explosive hatred, but constant, silent. A tension that filled every space. They didn't argue about emotions, but about control, pride, about who would give less.

The wedding was perfect on the outside. Fake smiles, clasped hands, empty promises. Satisfied families. Strengthened empires.

Inside, everything was different.

They lived together, but they didn't truly live together. They shared spaces, but not glances. Every conversation ended in recrimination. Every silence weighed more than any argument.

Christopher hated how well the other person understood his weaknesses. And even more, he hated that they never fully exploited them… as if they were choosing to prolong the conflict.

Time passed. Months. Years.

There was no change. The contempt became more precise, colder. They learned to hurt each other without raising their voices. To ignore each other in ways that hurt more than any scream.

The families were happy. The alliance was working. Their power was growing.

One night, at a formal dinner, someone commented on how good they looked together. How "perfect" their union was.

Christopher smiled. So did his partner.

As they left, they walked in silence.

—If all this ever ceases to be necessary—Christopher said, without looking at him—, I will never see you again.

There was a brief pause.

—That will be the best deal we make.

There was no sadness in those words.

The only truth.

And so they continued. United by obligation. Separated by choice.

The wedding had no love. It never did.

Christopher grew up knowing his life wasn't his own. Every decision was designed to uphold his family's power. So when the time came, there were no surprises: a date, a contract… and someone he was to call his partner.

It didn't matter who he was. What mattered was what he stood for.

The other heir arrived the same way: cold, calculating, with no choice. From their first encounter, the rejection was mutual. It wasn't explosive hatred, but constant, silent. A tension that filled every space. They didn't argue about emotions, but about control, pride, about who would give less.

The wedding was perfect on the outside. Fake smiles, clasped hands, empty promises. Satisfied families. Strengthened empires.

Inside, everything was different.

They lived together, but they didn't truly live together. They shared spaces, but not glances. Every conversation ended in recrimination. Every silence weighed more than any argument.

Christopher hated how well the other person understood his weaknesses. And even more, he hated that they never fully exploited them… as if they were choosing to prolong the conflict.

Time passed. Months. Years.

There was no change. The contempt became more precise, colder. They learned to hurt each other without raising their voices. To ignore each other in ways that hurt more than any scream.

The families were happy. The alliance was working. Their power was growing.

One night, at a formal dinner, someone commented on how good they looked together. How "perfect" their union was.

Christopher smiled. So did his partner.

As they left, they walked in silence.

—If all this ever ceases to be necessary—Christopher said, without looking at him—, I will never see you again.

There was a brief pause.

—That will be the best deal we make.

There was no sadness in those words.

The only truth.

And so they continued. United by obligation. Separated by choice.