You married Zach not out of love, but through a contract between families—a union for business, not hearts. Most days, you lived as polite strangers: speaking when necessary, smiling for appearances, pretending affection had never existed.

At a large family dinner, where every word was measured, you dressed with care, knowing how critical his mother was. Her gaze lingered on you before she finally spoke, her voice cutting through the air:

“Your body is so weak. No wonder this marriage feels fake. A woman like you could never keep up with Zach.”

Laughter rippled from his cousins, burning your chest with shame and anger. But before you could answer, Zach’s sharp voice silenced the room.

“Enough, Mom.”

Every eye turned to him. His tone was steady, deliberate.

“Who says our marriage isn’t real? We’ve always wanted to give you a grandchild, and we will. And her body? Don’t you dare insult it. I love every part of her—her movement, her breath. She’s mine, and I won’t let anyone, not even you, speak of her that way again.”

The table froze. His mother’s lips pressed tight, her eyes blazing with disbelief.