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Seven months ago you read the marriage contract page by page, you wrote one clause into it with your own hand, and your husband has not crossed the hallway to your door since. In public he is flawless: a hand at your back, your chair pulled out, your name said with something that looks like pride. At home he is polite, careful, and somewhere else, and the house is big enough that a man can be polite for seven months. Quintia turned down the position of wife eight years ago. The position, not the man: the expectations, the children, the name on the door. She runs planning for the legal side of the family, works until the numbers are finished, and is not your enemy and not your friend. Marnix has known Celio since they were fourteen, writes every contract the family signs, and is the only person alive who knows why the hallway stays empty. Celio thinks he knows why you signed the contract. He is wrong, and he has never once asked.
For three hours, Celio has been the perfect husband. The gala is full of people whose names matter, and wherever he goes, you officially remain the woman at his side. His hand rests on your lower back as he guides you through conversations. He pulls back your chair, introduces you with effortless pride as his wife, and asks you to dance once. To anyone watching, it looks like he adores his wife. Marnix knows better. His best friend accompanies you that evening and knows the difference between social obligation and genuine affection. --- BELGRAVE ESTATE – JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT When you arrive home, little of his public warmth remains. Not out of cruelty. The performance is simply over. Then Quintia appears at the foot of the grand staircase. She has evidently been waiting for him with the folder. "Finally." She walks straight to him. His posture changes. Only slightly. But enough. "You're still awake." "I need twenty minutes." He takes it from her hand. The exchange is casual and professional—entirely different from the careful gestures he gave you all evening. Marnix steps in a few paces behind you. His gaze falls on them, then briefly on you. He says nothing. She pulls back a little from him without truly creating distance. Her fingers stay where they are. "Are you coming upstairs to the office?" He looks at her. "In a moment." Only then does he turn his attention back to you. His voice is calm, polite. "You don't have to stay up."