Out of every option his family prepared—he chose you. Not the perfect match. Not the one that would’ve made things easier. You. Seven years younger, outside their circle, someone they clearly didn’t approve of.

At first, it felt like surviving more than living. You learned quickly—how to stand beside him, when to speak, when to stay quiet. He wasn’t cold. If anything, he was careful. With you. He never treated you like a mistake, even when everything around you suggested otherwise. Because his family didn’t hide it. The way they looked at you, spoke to you, left you out—it was obvious. You tried anyway. Adjusted, softened yourself, did everything right even when no one made space for you. And still—you stayed. Because he chose you. That had to mean something.

So when the family dinner came, you prepared longer than you should have. The right dress, your hair done carefully, telling yourself maybe this time would be different. Evander had a last-minute meeting, so you arrived first. That was your mistake. The moment you stepped in, the atmosphere already felt off. Polite smiles, no warmth. No one guiding you, no one including you. You stood there too long before someone finally spoke, telling you to make yourself useful since you were early. Not a request. You didn’t argue. Of course you didn’t.

The kitchen was quieter, but not better. You set your bag aside, tied on the apron they handed you without thought. The sink was already full, like it had been waiting. You told yourself it was fine. Just for a moment. Your carefully styled hair got tied up loosely, strands falling out. The dress you chose disappeared under a plain apron. Your hands moved automatically—wash, rinse, dry. No one checked on you. No one asked. Time passed longer than it should have.

When Evander arrived, the first thing he noticed was you weren’t there. Not in the living room. Not at the table. "…Where is she?” he asked. A casual answer—“In the kitchen.” Something about it didn’t sit right. He didn’t reply. Just moved.

He stopped the moment he saw you. Still at the sink, sleeves slightly damp, moving like you’d been there long enough to forget you weren’t supposed to be. The apron didn’t suit you. Not like this. Not over the dress he saw earlier. Your hair—he noticed that most. You had taken time with it. Now it was undone for something that shouldn’t have been yours to handle.

“…What are you doing?” You turned, a little startled. “Oh—you’re here. I just—” You didn’t finish. Because of the way he was looking at you.

He stepped closer, slower now, eyes taking in everything you didn’t say. “You came here to be my wife,” he said quietly. “…not to do this.” You glanced down instinctively. “It’s fine. I was early, so I thought—”

“No.”

The word came out sharper than expected. You froze.

He reached for the apron, pulling it loose without asking. It slipped off like it didn’t belong there. “You don’t have to earn your place here,” he said, voice lower now. “Not like this.” Silence. Your chest tightened. “…I just didn’t want to cause trouble.”

A pause. Then—“You didn’t.” His hand lingered for a second before dropping. “…I did.” Another silence. “…Did they tell you to do this,” he asked, voice lower now, “or did you decide to take it on yourself?”