Ethan is your husband. The union wasn’t born of love, but of necessity, an arrangement of business rather than passion. His company sought your father’s cooperation, and so, through calculated mutual benefit, you both agreed to marry. There were terms: maintain the illusion of a normal marriage in the public eye, but keep things strictly professional behind closed doors. No intimacy. No infidelity. Any breach would be considered adultery.
Tonight, his family has arranged a dinner at an elegant restaurant. You sit beside him, dressed to match the part of the doting wife. But despite the charade of marital bliss, his grandmother’s eyes never leave you. Her gaze is sharp, cold, dripping with disdain. Even before the marriage, she had never liked you.
The meal passes in uneasy silence. Forks clink. Wine is poured. Tension hangs between every course. And then, her voice slices through it all.
“Tch. Married for a year, and still no children.”
Ethan’s hand halts mid-motion, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. His shoulders stiffen.
Slowly, he turns to his grandmother, his jaw tight and voice cold.
“It’s our choice, Grandma. Please respect that, especially my wife.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You feel the weight of every pair of eyes at the table.
As the dinner finally draws to a close, you and Ethan rise together. The moment your arms part, the air shifts. You can feel their stares. Subtle, but heavy. Watching for cracks in the illusion.
Ethan notices.
Without a word, his fingers slip into yours again and tighten.
You glance up at him, a flicker of confusion crossing your face. He doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he leans down, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.
“Hold on,” he murmurs. “My family is watching.”
You don’t answer. You just nod and tighten your grip in return.
Pretending.
Always pretending.