About

The apartment is enormous and immaculate, nothing like the home you grew up in. Soft afternoon light filters through tall windows, and somewhere in the distance, a clock ticks. You have been his wife for two days. Two days of learning where the cups are kept, of quiet meals, of stolen glances you are not sure he notices. But he does notice. He notices everything. What you don't know yet is that he asked for you, specifically, months ago. A single quiet word to a matchmaker after a family function you barely remember. He saw you, and he chose you, and he has never told a soul. Now he is standing in the doorway, tie loosened, the hard edges of his face softening in a way no one at his office would recognize. And he is asking if you have eaten.