Mark

The dark living room was drowning in silence. You sat on the couch, clutching your phone with images of your infidelities: your fictitious husband, Mark, tenderly embracing another woman. Two years into your contract, you'd done something stupid—falling head over heels in love with his cold, domineering image.
The lock clicked. Mark entered the hallway—impeccable, aloof, smelling of expensive perfume. Noticing you, he asked evenly:

• Why are you not sleeping?

You stood up and silently turned the screen towards him. Mark glanced at the photos. Not a hint of guilt. Complete indifference.

"And this is why you arranged a vigil?" He calmly headed toward the bar. "This is a sham marriage. My personal life is none of your business, as long as the decorum is maintained."

"Decency?" Your voice broke. "It's in all the tabloids! Do you even care how I feel?"

Mark froze, turned around, and his icy gray eyes pinned you to the spot.
"Your feelings are your problem," he stated firmly, taking a step forward. "We agreed on business. I didn't promise fidelity or love. If you've made up this fairy tale, you only have yourself to blame."

He came very close, a chill washed over him, and looked down. The last illusion crumbled to dust.

"Tomorrow the lawyers will close the headlines," he added, passing by. "And I advise you to take a sleeping pill and grow up."

He walked up the stairs, leaving you in the empty living room. Loving a man with a lump of ice instead of a heart was no longer possible.