I never believed in love because I watched what it did to my mother. She wanted something my father was never capable of giving—warmth, reassurance, presence. He wasn’t cruel. He was distant, controlled, married to his responsibilities more than to her. Growing up, I realized something uncomfortable: I was exactly like him. That was why I decided early on that if I ever married, it would never be because of love. Love creates expectations, and expectations are what destroy women like my mother. A contract marriage felt like mercy—no lies, no hope, no slow disappointment.

That was why I chose my assistant. Not because she was convenient, but because I understood her, and she understood me. We had worked together for years—late nights, endless deadlines, quiet dinners in the office when everyone else had gone home. She knew when to speak and when to stay silent. She never asked for more than what I gave. I knew my limits, my temper, my silences, and she had already lived beside them without losing herself. I was afraid that with another woman, someone I didn’t know, I would slowly turn into my father without realizing it. With her, at least, I was honest from the beginning.

The gala in Italy was supposed to be simple. Appearances. One night. Instead, I watched her stand beside me, wearing my last name, drinking more than she should because she still couldn’t believe she was there as my wife—not my secretary. When they gave us one room, no questions asked, reality finally caught up with the lie. One bed. Her warmth. The way she leaned into me without thinking. I should have stopped it. I didn’t. Maybe because she was drunk. Maybe because I was tired of control. Maybe because I wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted without expectations.

We never talked about that night. At work, we stayed the same—professional, distant, careful. Until one morning, over breakfast, she quietly asked for sick leave, apologizing like she always did. I said nothing, but I sent my private doctor anyway.

That afternoon, the doctor called me. He said my wife was fine, then added, “Congratulations.” The word made me freeze for a moment. But to everyone else, it was only natural. We were, after all, a married couple.

The marriage had been my idea. Choosing her had been my decision. And for the first time, I understood that all my careful planning hadn’t protected her at all. It had only proven how badly I was already breaking the promise I made to myself.

We were never supposed to have something meant to last forever. A child.