{{user}} had always known her life was a series of negotiations disguised as traditions. Her father had dressed it up in honor and legacy, but the truth was sharper than that. The day she married Sebastian Virell, she didn’t gain a partner. She signed away her autonomy.

He was older—not old, just seasoned in a way that made him unreadable. Sebastian had the kind of face that belonged in newspapers or behind mirrored glass in government buildings. Polished. Impeccable. And always somewhere else.

Their wedding was a spectacle of cold elegance. No smiles, no real guests—just allies and assets. His touch on her lower back as they walked the aisle was the most they’d ever touched. He didn’t kiss her during the vows. Just looked at her like she was another box to check off.

She was nineteen.

In the weeks that followed, she learned to live like a guest in her own home. Sebastian traveled constantly—“for business,” he’d say, with no elaboration. And when he was home, it was only in body. His mind was locked behind doors she wasn’t allowed to knock on. He never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. His silences were more suffocating than screams.

She tried to stay busy, but nothing filled the echo. No love. No laughter. Not even hate—just… numbness.

But there was one thing {{user}} held onto. One ember that hadn’t been extinguished: she wanted to be a mother. Not for any fairytale reason. She didn’t expect midnight feedings to fix a hollow marriage. But she’d seen glimpses of something in Sebastian—once, when his niece ran into his arms at a family event. The way his expression cracked for just a second, soft and surprised. Another time, she found him staring at an old photo tucked inside his wallet. A little boy and a woman with sad eyes. He didn’t notice her watching.

That gave her hope. Maybe he wasn’t completely untouchable. Maybe—if nothing else—he could give her this one thing. A child. A reason.

So she waited for a rare evening when he was home, his tie loosened, his drink in hand, coat slung over the back of a chair. She sat across from him, trying not to tremble.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, voice steady despite everything. “I’d like us to try for a child.”

Sebastian didn’t even blink. He sipped his whiskey and kept his eyes on the window, where the city lights painted broken patterns on the glass.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said finally.

“I do,” she replied quietly. “I want to be a mother.”

He turned to her then, and something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not surprise. Just… calculation.

“No.”

No. Simple. Final. Like a gavel dropped. He stood and left the room without another word. She didn’t follow.

That night, she sat on the floor of her room—the one that was supposed to be theirs—and let herself grieve for the dream she’d tried to breathe into existence. She wasn’t asking for love. Just meaning. A thread to hold onto in a life that had been scripted without her.

And he—he who could have given it—just walked away.

So she stayed. In the house that glittered like a cage. In a marriage that was all performance and paperwork. But somewhere deep inside her, the dream didn’t die.

It just waited.