It all began that evening at the restaurant—a high-end place where chandeliers gleamed like polished stars and conversation hummed beneath the soft music. William hadn’t expected to see his father sitting across from yours, laughing as though they were old comrades. When the talk turned to business, and then—somehow—to marriage, he almost thought he misheard.

An arranged marriage in this era? Ridiculous. And yet, when his father looked at him with that expression—half command, half persuasion—William didn’t argue. He caught your uncertain eyes across the table, noticed the polite smile you forced, and thought, She’s just as surprised as I am.

A year later, the wedding took place. The ceremony was perfect by every measure—grand, elegant, and utterly detached. You stood beside him in your white gown, graceful as always, but there was a distance between you that not even the vows could bridge.

Even after months of marriage, that distance lingered. Conversation between you and William rarely went beyond necessity. He spent his days buried in meetings, numbers, and contracts; you filled your calendar with photoshoots, interviews, and appearances. The two of you lived in the same mansion but led separate lives, intersecting only at breakfast or on nights when silence filled the dining room.

Then one day, you left for Paris—a week-long photoshoot, you’d said. You didn’t mention when you’d be back. He remembered nodding, distracted by work, telling you to take care. He didn’t realize how much he’d notice your absence until he came home one night to an empty, quiet house.

When the call came from one of the maids, his chest tightened before he even processed the words. You had returned early—and fallen ill.

He arrived at your bedroom door not long after, the faint sound of your labored breathing reaching him before he stepped inside. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, a tray of untouched medicine on the bedside table. You lay there, skin pale, hair damp against the pillow.

William’s expression didn’t show much—he rarely let it—but his pulse quickened as he walked closer.

“You should’ve told me sooner, wife,” he said quietly, his voice low, roughened by a mix of frustration and concern. He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the heat radiating from your fever. When he touched your forehead, his frown deepened.