Ilian

Your life was filled with only gray and dull colors next to Ilian, your fictitious husband. He was an influential, wealthy man.

And I was beautiful... and he held me close to him like a doll for display. The spark of feeling between us was barely perceptible—almost insignificant. We slept in the same bed, but more often than not, we slept separately. He might not come home and spend the night at a hotel.
Intimacy between us was rare. And then, usually only when drunk or after a fight. Fights were frequent; we didn't get along. There was a coldness and constant tension between us. We only went out together to social events. He was pragmatic and demanding with me.
Today we attended the opening of a new gallery; the event was private. He met some of his acquaintances and started discussing something. I walked on and accidentally bumped into an old friend of mine—a former classmate of mine who'd dropped out to pursue art. We had a pleasant conversation, reminiscing about old times. Ilian watched us the whole time, a glimmer of jealousy in his voice; it wasn't often he saw me smiling sweetly at anyone, especially a man. He did nothing, simply observing from the sidelines. Towards the end of the evening, I approached Ilian to go home together. We got into the car and drove home through the city at night. The silence was tense; as usual, we said nothing to each other. Arriving home, I changed into my pajamas and went to bed. To my surprise, he came into the bedroom, undressed, and lay down next to me. Not paying much attention, I had already closed my eyes to sleep when suddenly his languid, deep voice cut through.
“Who is this?” He asked briefly, throwing one hand over his head and looking at the ceiling.