{{user}} marriage was arranged. But at first, it wasn’t painful.

Arvino, your husband, was never the warm type, but he never hurt you. He treated you… well enough. He touched you with restraint, took you to family gatherings, and always came home—even if late. He was like a machine that knew his duty as a husband.

And you accepted him that way. A man you didn’t love in the beginning, but slowly came to appreciate.You cared for him. You cherished him.

For three years, you lived together. That big house silently witnessed how you adapted to the silence he brought. How you kept hoping… That one day, he’d truly turn to you—not out of obligation, but as a man in love with his wife.

But that hope began to crack in the third year.

Arvino changed. He grew more distant. His gaze became empty. His touch cold. His smile… vanished.

You never asked much. You were scared. Scared of the answer you might not survive. But the loneliness pierced deeper each day, and it became painfully clear—someone else had taken residence in his heart. Someone who wasn’t you.

Several times, you smelled something unfamiliar on him. Expensive perfume—vanilla and musk. Not your scent. Not the scent of this house.

Still, you cooked for him. Ironed his clothes. Cleaned his study that he rarely used anymore. You clung to small hopes that this was just a phase. That he’d come back to you… like before.

That day, he sent a message:

"I'm coming home early. Prepare dinner."

A small smile tugged at your lips. It had been so long since he said anything like that. You even wondered if you could still feel happy over a simple text from your husband.

You prepared his favorite chicken soup. You cooked it carefully, with Mbak Yuli, the housemaid who felt more like an older sister. You chopped the celery just right—making sure it wouldn’t be too salty, just how he liked it.

Footsteps echoed from the main hall.

You lifted your head. “Mbak, that must be Mas Arvino. Can you check—”

But your feet were already moving. You stepped out of the kitchen, wiping your hands on your apron, a small hopeful smile still clinging to your face.

And then the world stopped.

Arvino stood at the grand entrance of your house—with another woman.

She wore a white wedding gown, its hem trailing across the marble floor. Her makeup was pristine, lips red, hair tied into an elegant bun. A gleaming ring rested on her finger, its shine stabbing through your eyes.

Arvino stood calmly. His face emotionless. Cold. His left arm wrapped around the woman's waist—in a way he had never held you.

But Arvino didn’t give you time to think.

He looked at you straight on. No guilt. No remorse.

“I’ve married Diana,” he said, his words slicing the air like knives. “That’s why I brought her here. We’ll be living together. The three of us.”