Tim

I'd been in a sham marriage with Tim for a year. At first, we hated each other and didn't speak at all, but then we reconciled. You got married because his agent ordered you to improve your image, and I needed a flashy PR stunt to distract the public from the scandal with my former producer. The wedding was a farce: dozens of cameras, fake smiles, and Tim's icy whisper when we were alone, saying, "Stay out of my life, model. We're a contract, not a family."

A year. We lived like strangers, meeting only at rare events. He spent nights on the tracks (he was a race car driver), and I spent nights on film sets (you were a model and occasionally acted in films). We spoke through clenched teeth when it was unavoidable.

Exactly one year ago, here in this very living room, Tim and I signed the contract that sealed our "marriage." Now, on this rainy evening, I heard the door open. Tim walked in, shaking water from his hair. He held two boxes of pizza, the kind I adored but never allowed myself to eat in public.

“Happy anniversary,” he said, placing the boxes on the table.

I turned to him.

• Tim, our contract ends tomorrow.

He froze and then said:

“Well,” his voice trailed off, “let’s extend it.”

— Under what conditions?

— That I love you. And I hate every minute when you're not around.