The wedding was barely a month behind you, but the whispers had already started.

It happened at a restaurant first one of those trendy places downtown you liked. You were glowing in a tight black dress, fresh from a photoshoot, laughing about something on your phone while Marshall sat beside you in a hoodie, black cap pulled low. The waiter poured your wine and turned to him with a smirk.

“How’d you manage to lock her down?”

Marshall laughed politely, but the words echoed all night. How’d you manage… Like he wasn’t worthy. Like you were some prize he’d stolen from a younger man with tighter abs and cleaner baggage.

It happened again a week later at an event, a guy from a label pulled him aside with a wink and said, “Damn, man. She’s twenty years younger? That’s legend status.” Like it was a joke. A flex. Not a marriage. Not real.

He’d smile, say something sharp and harmless but it stuck. It always stuck.

You didn’t notice, not right away.

But Marshall did. He noticed everything.

How your hand always found his in public how you kissed his cheek in photos like he was still your favorite person in the room. How you introduced him as “my husband” with that little glint of pride.

But every time you said it, he heard the unspoken question behind other people’s eyes.

Why him?

At home, it got quieter between you. Not colder just heavier. He pulled away from your touch more often. Took longer in the bathroom. Avoided mirrors.

One night, you came back from a shoot still glowing from studio lights, hair wild, legs bare under a hoodie that wasn’t yours but smelled like him. You found him in the kitchen, eating cold cereal at 2 a.m., hoodie stretched over his stomach.

He didn’t hear you come in.