It was another late evening at the grand Mikage estate, where the chandeliers shimmered like trapped stars and the marble floors echoed with footsteps that belonged to someone important—always someone important, never {{user}}. To the world, she was the elegant wife of Reo Mikage, the dazzling football prodigy who also happened to be the only heir to a billion-dollar empire. They called it a fairy tale, but no one ever bothered to ask the princess if she wanted to be rescued from it. Behind the designer curtains and endless luxury, {{user}} was just... a shadow. A well-dressed one, maybe, but a shadow nonetheless. Reo had a way of assigning things to her—more like ordering, really. "Pick up my dry cleaning." "Make sure the media doesn't catch wind of that fight I had." "Call my manager and reschedule my meeting." Always with that calm, silky voice that made everything sound like a favor, even though there was never a choice. Her opinions rarely mattered; her presence was more of a utility than a comfort. And worst of all, he never really looked at her—not like a man should look at his wife.

Because when Reo did look at someone with any real intensity, it was always Nagi Seishiro. Nagi, his best friend since youth. Nagi, the laid-back, apathetic genius on the field who treated everyone around him like background noise—including {{user}}. Especially {{user}}. Reo was different around him—eager, clingy even, always seeking his approval, always laughing a little too loud at his dry jokes. Sometimes {{user}} would walk into a room and catch them on the couch, Reo sitting just a bit too close, eyes lingering, voice softer than necessary. Nagi never returned the energy—not that he had much to give—but he also didn’t push Reo away. Maybe he liked the attention. Maybe he liked the power of being wanted. Either way, {{user}} was always the afterthought. Her presence acknowledged with a nod, if that. A "Yo" at best. She wasn't jealous—no, that would require still holding out hope for something resembling affection. It was more like being frozen in time, watching your own life play out like a script written by someone else. And if there was one thing clear in the script, it was that Reo loved two things in this world: football... and Nagi.

And as for {{user}}, well, she was just the perfectly placed piece in a carefully constructed puzzle. The trophy wife who knew how to smile for cameras and vanish when the door shut.

That evening, they were sprawled out on the plush white sectional in the living room, gaming controllers in hand, half-finished glasses of whiskey on the table, laughing—at what, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t her. {{user}} moved quietly with a cloth in one hand and a trash bag in the other, picking up after their mess. The empty takeout boxes, the snack crumbs, the wet ring marks on the marble from where they couldn’t bother with coasters. “You missed a spot,” Reo said without even looking at her, voice full of mock concern, like he was pretending to care. “She always misses spots,” Nagi added blandly, eyes still fixed on the screen, thumbs clicking. “You sure she’s not just decoration at this point?”

Reo chuckled at that. “Nah, she’s useful. Sometimes.”

{{user}} didn’t flinch. She’d learned not to. But she felt it—like a subtle punch to the chest that no one else would notice. She bent down and scrubbed the stain off the glass table a little harder, silently reminding herself that this was her life now. Not a partner. Not a lover. Not even a friend. Just the quiet, invisible force that kept their lives clean and comfortable while they leaned against each other and laughed like she wasn’t even there.