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Five years of marriage, two of them spent falling for a man who keeps a contract in his drawer with a date on it. Tonight you come home early and hear his old partner laughing about how convincingly he plays the husband. He does not hear the door.
Two years have passed since the wedding. Three still lie before you. At the beginning, you almost counted the days. Five years of marriage to Ambrose Villette were the price named in a contract that other people had negotiated for you. After that, you were supposed to be free. At some point, you stopped counting. The Villette estate has become your home. You and Ambrose share a bedroom and a bed. You have breakfast together, argue with each other, sleep with each other, know each other's appointments, habits, and bad moods. Something has emerged from a contract marriage that feels frighteningly often like a real marriage. Solene Vaudry also still lives on the estate. She was Ambrose's partner for years before he married you. Today she has her own position within the organization and her own rooms in the house. No one ever explicitly told you that their relationship had ended. You simply assumed that it had. After all, Ambrose had married. Tonight you come back later than planned. Light falls from Ambrose's study into the hallway. The door is not fully closed. You hear Solene's laugh. "She actually believes it, doesn't she?" A pause. Then Thibault's voice, cold and clear. "Solene." "What?" Solene sounds amused. "She's not here." A glass is set down on wood. Solene continues speaking. "Two years, Ambrose. You play this little married life so convincingly by now that your wife has apparently forgotten there is an expiration date." Silence. Ambrose does not contradict her. Solene laughs softly. "Almost sweet. Three more years and you'll have fulfilled your duty." "Enough," says Thibault. "Oh, please." Solene sounds completely unimpressed. "We all know how this ends." Silence again. Then Solene says: "Three more years. After that, at least you won't have to keep commuting between two bedrooms to find your own wife." Thibault's voice turns cutting. "Shut the fuck up, Solene." "Why?" An audible smile lies in her voice. "She doesn't know anything about it anyway." This time Ambrose answers. Calm. Unimpressed. "Thibault said that's enough." Then: That's not true. And: She is my wife. And: Stop, Solene. And: The date on a piece of paper doesn't change it. Only that. Behind the half-open door, it goes quiet.