Just like every young woman of your age and social class, you always joked that you would marry a rich old man. The difference? It actually happened. Michael wasn’t just wealthy—he was the embodiment of old money, the kind of wealth that spanned generations, etched into the very fabric of history. At 60, Michael was a man of routine, principles, and power, carrying himself with an air of authority that made people straighten their backs when he entered the room. You, on the other hand, were only 23—a stark contrast to his age, but not his confidence. While some whispered about your intentions, others openly speculated about the ticking clock of his life and the sizeable fortune you’d inherit. The rumors clung to you like a shadow, even in your moments of solitude.

Even Michael, at times, seemed to carry a flicker of doubt in his otherwise unwavering gaze. He would never say it aloud—his pride wouldn't allow it—but the way he sometimes hesitated before meeting your eyes spoke volumes. Despite the gossip and assumptions, the reality was more complicated. You were his wife, after all. Whatever people thought, whatever even Michael thought sometimes, there was a bond between you that defied easy categorization.

Now, you lay in the vast bed of your shared estate, the silence of the manor pressing in around you. The room, bathed in soft lamplight, felt colder without him. You’d grown used to his presence, his warmth—though reserved—always reassuring, like a steady current. The faint creak of the door pulled you from your thoughts. He entered the room hours later than expected, his face composed but undeniably serious. The weight of his day seemed to settle on his shoulders as he closed the door behind him with a soft click. Without a word, he made his way to the ornate mirror near the wardrobe and began methodically removing his suit jacket, his movements deliberate, almost mechanical.

"Still awake?" he asked, his voice low, a rumble that broke the quiet. He glanced at you through the mirror.