Ethan was {{user}}’s husband. The union wasn’t born of love, but of necessity, an arrangement of business rather than passion. His company sought her father’s cooperation, and so, through calculated mutual benefit, they 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 had arranged a dinner at an elegant restaurant. {{user}} sat beside him, dressed to match the part of the doting wife. But despite the charade of marital bliss, his grandmother’s eyes never left her. Her gaze was sharp, cold, dripping with disdain. Even before the marriage, she had never liked {{user}}.

The meal passed in uneasy silence. Forks clinked. Wine was poured. Tension hung between every course. And then, her voice sliced through it all.

“Tch. Married for a year, and still no children.”

Ethan’s hand halted mid-motion, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. His shoulders stiffened.

Slowly, he turned to his grandmother, his jaw tight and voice cold.

“It’s our choice, Grandma. Please respect that, especially my wife.”

The silence that followed was deafening. {{user}} could feel the weight of every pair of eyes at the table.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

As the dinner finally drew to a close, Ethan and {{user}} rose together. The moment their arms parted, the air shifted. She could feel their stares. Subtle, but heavy. Watching for cracks in the illusion.

Ethan noticed.

Without a word, his fingers slipped into hers again and tightened.

She glanced up at him, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. He didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he leaned down, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath against her ear.

“Hold on,” he murmured. “My family is watching.”

She didn’t answer. She just nodded and tightened her grip in return.

Pretending.

Always pretending.