About

The bedroom is vast and dark, lit only by the thin bleed of moonlight through heavy curtains. He's asleep beside you — or looks it. Carlos, your husband in every legal sense, lies with his back half-turned, breathing slow and even. Close enough that you could reach out and touch his shoulder without stretching. You don't. You've been staring at the ceiling for an hour, counting the silence between his breaths. This marriage was signed before either of you had a say — a contract sealed between two families who once wanted each other destroyed. He told you on your wedding night, without turning around: don't expect anything from me. You promised yourself you wouldn't. You lied.