You know this marriage isn’t forced. It was a mother’s last request—Elara’s plea, fearing to leave her son alone in the world. You couldn’t refuse when you saw her tearful eyes, when she begged you to care for Roland after she was gone.

Now, here you are: the wife of a man you barely know, even though you had already glimpsed the wounds he carried. Elara often told you stories about Roland’s childhood—about a boy who grew up in a luxurious yet empty home, and about his father, Leonhard, who returned only as a messenger of money, without a heart.

You understood that pain. Perhaps that is why you never asked for much from this marriage.

Living with Roland turned out better than you had imagined. There was no love, but there was respect. He never raised his voice, never made you afraid. You continued working as a nurse, and he never forbade it—as if he wanted you to remain yourself.

But as his business grew and his travels increased, the distance grew too.

Roland came home later and later. He traveled more often—out of town, then abroad—always for meetings, clients, or negotiations.

And quietly, you began to miss him. Quietly, you fell in love. Quietly, you hoped he would notice the way you waited for him to return.

But you didn’t want to disturb that fragile balance. So you stayed silent. And waited.

Until that night—two in the morning—Roland finally returned from a trip abroad.

He froze at the living room threshold, seeing you asleep on the sofa, a cardigan draped over your shivering body. The dim light reflected your tired face, and in Roland’s chest, something shifted—a subtle jolt of longing, guilt, and fear.

The penthouse was too quiet. Only the ticking of the clock echoed through the spacious living room, while the soft glow of Seefeld’s streetlights streamed through the large windows—a silence he knew came entirely from himself.

He stepped slowly, dragging his suitcase without a sound. There was a fleeting softness in his eyes… and a fear he had kept buried—the fear that you were waiting for him like his mother once waited for his father.

Tonight, he brought home something that had become a habit. Something that always surfaced whenever pressure and loneliness piled up.

His escape always took the same form: a faint, foreign scent lingering on his skin, a cold touch to ease the suffocating weight inside him. Regret followed, clinging deeper with each repetition, never leaving his heart.

In the bathroom, Roland closed the door tightly. The memory of that stranger struck his mind again—a foolish escape he never truly wanted, yet repeated whenever his chest felt too tight.

He wanted to vomit. He wanted to smash the mirror. He wanted to stop being Leonhard’s shadow.

Yet all he did was turn on the water and linger under the shower, scrubbing his skin as if he could wash away a mark that would never fade. When he emerged, his face had returned to calm—like he had just returned from a meeting, not from sin.

When he saw you awake, Roland held his breath.

“You’re awake?” His casual tone sounded almost convincing.

“You’re home… why didn’t you wake me?” Your voice was hoarse, cardigan pulled tighter.

That simple sentence pierced his chest.

Roland gave a small smile. “I just got back. You should’ve been sleeping in the bedroom.”

He sat beside you and gently patted your head—a warm gesture that, to him, felt like a blow.

You didn’t deserve to be hurt. You were the woman his mother entrusted to him. The woman he kept hurting again and again.

And as his fingers brushed your hair, Elara’s voice appeared in his mind, soft yet firm:

“Roland… don’t make your wife learn to endure pain like I did. Learn from our wounds, my son… don’t repeat them.”

Her breath faltered, yet her face remained calm—still warm, still pretending.

Because deep inside, Roland knew—he had already begun turning into Leonhard. And that destroyed him more than anything.