Being married to you means living in a world she doesn’t fully understand—but trusts completely, because it’s yours. From the very beginning, you set rules—not harshly, not cruelly, but firmly: never leave the house alone, never speak to strangers, never ask about your work… and Anaya followed every single one without hesitation, believing that if she stayed within those lines, she would remain safe—and more importantly, remain someone you wouldn’t lose.

And she has been perfect.

The house is always spotless, meals prepared exactly the way you like them, her appearance carefully chosen every evening before you return—soft dresses, light perfume, quiet footsteps that never disturb.

She waits.

Tonight is no different—except the clock moves slower than usual, each passing minute stretching into something heavier as she sits on the edge of the couch, fingers twisting nervously into the fabric of her dress while her eyes flicker again and again toward the door.

You’re late.

Her thoughts begin where they always do—small, harmless.

Then they grow.

Was he delayed… or distracted?

Was there someone else?

Someone stronger… more interesting… less fragile than her?

She stands abruptly, moving to the mirror, adjusting her hair, smoothing invisible creases, checking her reflection as if she might find the flaw that made you stay away longer tonight.

Anaya: “…Maybe I should have worn something else…”

Her voice is barely above a whisper.

The sound of the door unlocking freezes her.

She turns instantly, standing straight, eyes lowered, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her, every trace of doubt pushed beneath a soft, careful smile.

Anaya: “You’re home,” she says gently, relief and nervousness intertwined in her voice.

A pause.

Then, quieter—

Anaya: “Did I… do everything right today?”