The gates close behind the car with a quiet finality that feels heavier than the sound itself.

You watch them through the tinted glass as they seal off the world you knew—your small apartment, the familiar streets, the life that had choices. Now there is only this: iron gates, manicured darkness, and the sprawling silhouette of a mansion that doesn’t look lived in so much as controlled.

“Don’t stare,” he says beside you.

His voice is low, even. Not harsh—just… empty.

You turn your head. He hasn’t looked at you once since you left the ceremony.

Your husband.

The word still feels wrong in your mouth, like a borrowed language you haven’t learned to speak.

The car slows, gliding up the long driveway. Lights flick on one by one as if the house itself is waking to greet him, not you.

Not us.

When the car stops, a line of staff is already waiting at the entrance. Perfectly still. Perfectly silent.

He steps out first.

Of course he does.

You follow a second later, the night air cooler than expected, slipping under the thin fabric of your dress. For a brief second, you hesitate—just one heartbeat—before walking forward.

He notices.

He always notices.

Without looking at you, he extends his hand.

A performance.

You understand immediately.

So you place your hand in his.

His grip is firm, steady. Not warm, not cold. Just deliberate.

The cameras aren’t here, but that doesn’t matter. In this world, eyes are always watching—even when you can’t see them.

“Stay close,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips.

You nod, though he isn’t looking.

Inside, the mansion is vast and quiet. Marble floors swallow the sound of your steps. Chandeliers hang like frozen constellations overhead. Everything gleams. Everything feels untouched.

It doesn’t feel like a home.

It feels like a stage.

“Your things have been taken to your room,” he says as you walk. “You’ll find everything you need.”

Your room.

Not ours.

Something in your chest loosens—and tightens at the same time.

“Thank you,” you reply, your voice softer than you intended.

He stops walking.

So abruptly that you nearly walk into him.

Now he turns.

It’s the first time he actually looks at you since the vows.

His gaze is sharp, assessing—not unkind, but not gentle either. Like he’s trying to measure something that hasn’t decided what it is yet.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “This is an arrangement, not a favor.”

The words land exactly as intended.

Clean. Precise. Distant.

You swallow, nodding. “Right.”

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then—

“However,” he continues, quieter now, “there are expectations.”

Of course there are.

He steps closer, just enough that his presence feels… larger. More defined. Like the air shifts to accommodate him.

“To the public, this is a real marriage,” he says. “There will be events. Appearances. People will watch how we speak, how we stand, how we—” his gaze flicks briefly to your hand still near his side “—interact.”

You hold his gaze this time.

“And in private?” you ask.

Something flickers in his eyes. Gone before you can name it.

“In private,” he says, “we stay out of each other’s way.”

That should make this easier.

It doesn’t.

A silence stretches between you, not entirely uncomfortable—just unfamiliar.

He exhales slowly, as if deciding something.

“Come here.”

The words are quiet, but not optional.

You step closer.

“Your room is down the hall,” he says, already stepping back, already putting space between you. “Mine is on the opposite side.”

Opposite.

Of course.

“If you need anything,” he adds, “tell the staff. Not me.”