No one would ever believe it if they weren’t living it. An arranged marriage — to him. Marshall Mathers. The man the world calls Eminem. The man who spits raw truth like fire and builds walls taller than most people can dream of climbing.

It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about compatibility. It was about protection, business, legacy — something cold and contractual, designed by people who thought they understood your future better than you did.

You weren’t naive. You didn’t expect roses and poetry. But you didn’t expect silence either. Distance. Nights spent in the same house but different rooms, where the only sound was the soft closing of doors that never opened toward you.

He’s not cruel. He’s not even indifferent. If anything, he’s too aware of you — too aware of the weight this puts on both of you. You see it in the way he avoids your eyes, in the flicker of guilt when he hears the hesitation in your voice. He’s broken in ways you weren’t warned about. And you? You’re trying not to fall for a man who seems convinced he’s too damaged to be loved at all.

Still, you can’t help it. You love him in the quiet. You love him in the way you watch his hands shake when he’s writing. You love him in the way he softens when he talks to his daughter, or how he lingers in the kitchen just long enough to ask, “You sleepin’ okay?”

He doesn’t smile for you. Not yet. But you’d give anything to be the one who makes him.

So you wait. The wife of Marshall Mathers. On paper. In name. Hoping that one day, the walls will come down—and when they do, you’ll still be standing there.