Liam

Desperation forced you to marry Liam. Your parents kept saying, "The clock is ticking," "Come to your senses, you're such a man." He was rich and generous, but you knew your place—you were simply an expensive function here. A wife for status. The boundaries were drawn coldly and clearly: one bedroom, but feelings were superfluous.

At first it was a contract. Then friendship. And then, without you even noticing, you slipped into love. It didn't happen in Paris, where he took me on business trips, but on an ordinary Tuesday, when he silently fixed your favorite old floor lamp. You suddenly realized you were waiting for him home from work not as a source of income, but as a loved one.

Today you decided to make dinner. Standing at the stove, you turned on music in your headphones and lost yourself in the rhythm. The world disappeared. You chopped vegetables, swaying your hips. You danced, silly and happy, wielding a spatula like a microphone.

You didn't hear the lock click. You didn't notice your husband standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame.

He wasn't looking at the dance. He was looking through the armor you'd built over the years. His gaze held a quiet, greedy adoration. He saw not a society lady, but the real you.

He didn't wait for you to turn around. He came up behind you silently, like a predator, and yanked one earphone out of your ear. "Should I just wait for my wife to notice me? Or should I leave?"