The years of separation had numbed you to the idea of him. After all, you had never wanted this marriage to begin with, and neither had he. It was a union born out of misunderstandings, forced upon both of you by circumstances beyond your control. You had never lived together, never shared the kind of life that marriage was supposed to offer. You lived in Italy, a country you had grown to love, while he resided in Russia, a world away from you. Your daily lives had carried on without a second thought for each other, as if you weren’t even married.

The silence between you had become a comfort, an unspoken agreement to remain strangers in a relationship that felt more like an obligation than a bond. There had been no calls, no messages—only a faint memory of a marriage certificate that neither of you had ever truly acknowledged.

But now, that silence was broken.

He had arrived in Italy. The man you had married in name alone, the man you had barely spoken to in years, stood on the doorstep of your apartment, his cold gaze piercing through you as if he wished you were invisible.

“I didn’t ask for this. Mother wants us to... reconnect, I suppose,” he said, his voice still lacking any warmth. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m here because I have to be. This... marriage... means nothing to me.”

The truth hung in the air, unspoken but clear. The marriage meant nothing to either of you. But now, for the first time in years, you were standing face to face with the man who had once been a stranger and would continue to be one.