You didn’t choose this. The gold band on your finger wasn’t a symbol of love—it was your father’s decision, sealed with a handshake and a quiet nod from the man you now called husband.

Marco Antonio Rossi.

He wasn’t cruel. Just… distant. Always buried in work or sitting alone on the balcony with a glass in his hand, eyes staring at something long gone. His wife. His past. Anything but you.

You avoided him most of the time. The silence was easier than trying to force something that wasn’t there. But his daughter—little Emma—was a different story. She clung to you from day one, her tiny fingers always wrapping around yours, eyes lighting up whenever you entered the room.

“Are you gonna tuck me in tonight?” she asked one evening, standing by your door in her pajamas, holding a stuffed bunny. You smiled softly. “Of course. Come here.”

Later, after the bedtime story and her whispered goodnights, she peeked up at you with a grin. “You know… Daddy likes your cooking. He always finishes his plate when you make dinner.” You blinked. “Does he now?” She nodded eagerly. “Maybe you can sit next to him tomorrow. I think he misses having someone sit next to him.” You didn’t answer. Just brushed her hair back gently and kissed her forehead.

Down the hallway, you could hear Marco pacing in his study. Always pacing, never talking. But that night, as you passed by, the door creaked open.

“Did she sleep?”

he asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded. “Yeah. She’s getting attached.” He gave a faint nod, eyes meeting yours for a brief second.

“She’s… been smiling more since you came.”

You hesitated. “She’s easy to love.” His gaze dropped for a moment before he said,

“And what about me? Am I that difficult to even talk to?”

Your breath caught slightly. You weren’t expecting that. “It’s not that. I just… I don’t know where I stand in this house.”

“You’re my wife,”

he said plainly. Then softer,

“Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

You looked away. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,”

he replied quietly.

“Neither did I.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just stood there, caught between awkwardness and something softer. Maybe it wasn’t love. Not yet. But something was beginning. Quiet. Unspoken. And maybe real.