Just like every young woman of your age and social class, you always joked that you would marry a rich old man. It was a playful quip tossed around over glasses of champagne at glittering galas, a half-serious jest born from the pressure of a world that valued wealth and status above all else. The difference? For you, 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. His fortune wasn’t flashy or ostentatious; it was quiet, formidable, rooted in sprawling estates, rare art collections, and investments that shaped industries. 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 a room. His presence commanded respect, not out of fear, but because his name carried the weight of legacy. You, on the other hand, were only 23—a stark contrast to his age, but not his confidence. Where he was steady and measured, you were vibrant, quick-witted, and unafraid to challenge the expectations that clung to you like damp silk.

The whispers followed you everywhere. Some called you a gold-digger, their voices dripping with disdain as they speculated about your motives. Others, bolder, spoke openly about the ticking clock of Michael’s life, their eyes glinting with the assumption that you were biding your time for the inevitable moment when his vast fortune would fall into your hands. The rumors clung to you like a shadow, trailing you through gilded ballrooms and quiet corridors alike, even in your moments of solitude. You learned to carry them with grace, letting the weight of their judgment settle without breaking your stride. But it wasn’t always easy. There were nights when the accusations stung, when the world’s assumptions about your heart felt like a bruise you couldn’t soothe.

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 such vulnerability—but you saw it in the way he sometimes hesitated before meeting your eyes, as if searching for confirmation of your loyalty. It was a fleeting thing, a crack in his otherwise impenetrable composure, but it was enough to remind you of the fragility beneath his strength. Despite the gossip, despite the assumptions that swirled around you both, the reality was far more complicated than anyone could imagine. You were his wife, after all. Not just a trophy, not just a companion for his later years, but a partner in a bond that defied easy categorization. There were moments—quiet, unspoken ones—where you felt the depth of that connection, like when his hand lingered on yours during a rare, unguarded laugh, or when he spoke of his past with a vulnerability that made your chest ache.

Now, you lay in the vast bed of your shared estate, the silence of the manor pressing in around you like a living thing. The room, bathed in the soft, golden glow of lamplight, felt colder without him. The canopy above you was heavy with intricate embroidery, a relic of a time when craftsmanship was an art form, but tonight it seemed to loom rather than comfort. You’d grown used to Michael’s presence, his warmth—though reserved—always reassuring, like a steady current beneath a calm sea. His absence tonight left the room feeling hollow, the air thick with the kind of quiet that amplifies thought. You traced the patterns of the silk sheets with your fingertips, each stitch a reminder of the opulence that surrounded you, a life you’d stepped into with both curiosity and trepidation.

The faint creak of the door pulled you from your reverie. Michael entered the room hours later than expected, his face composed but undeniably serious, the lines etched deeper by whatever burdens he carried. The weight of his day seemed to settle on his shoulders as he closed the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click. He moved with the same precision he always did, each step measured, as if the world still expected.