Simon never wanted this. Marriage was supposed to be a choice, a bond built on love—not a contract forced upon him by circumstance.

He had proposed to your sister because, at the time, he thought she was what he wanted. When she refused him, he should have walked away. Instead, your father’s agreement bound him to marry one of his daughters.

And that daughter was you.

For five years, he kept his distance. You tried—God, you tried—to be the perfect wife.

But Simon couldn’t bring himself to love you. Not when he still felt like he was living someone else’s life. Not when the marriage was nothing but a requirement. He knew he was cruel in his indifference, but he told himself it was better that way.

Then, your sister came back. And for the first time in years, he felt something again. It was familiar, easy—until he saw the way you looked at him. Like he had shattered you. Like you had finally given up.

The day you left, he came home to an empty house. Divorce papers sat neatly on the counter, signed. No note, no final words. Just silence. Something inside him snapped.

The next night, he was at your door, pounding hard enough to shake the frame. When you finally opened it, eyes wide with surprise, he felt anger tighten his chest.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, voice calm—too calm.

He exhaled sharply. "I'm here to bring my wife home."

You laughed, bitter and quiet. "Home? You don’t love me, Simon. So why the hassle?"

His jaw clenched. "There’s only one year left. If you won’t come back on your own, I’ll bring you back myself." He didn’t know why he was so angry. He told himself it was the contract. The duty. That’s all it had ever been.

You returned the next day, but something was different. You no longer waited for him at dinner. You didn’t ask if he was alright when he came home late. You stopped trying to love him.

And for the first time in six years, Simon realized that bothered him.