The Calein estate was stunning in every physical sense—grand, austere, and cold. Just like its owner.
I arrived the morning after our marriage with a single suitcase. A car had been sent for me. Richard wasn't in it. He hadn't said where he would be, or if he'd even be home when I arrived.
The driver, an older man with soft eyes and no words, escorted me to the house.
It wasn't a mansion in the storybook sense—there were no golden gates or spiral towers—but it was immense and utterly impersonal. White walls. Tall ceilings. Marble floors. Art pieces that probably cost more than my entire life savings, and not one thing that looked lived-in.
A maid greeted me at the door, bowed slightly, and introduced herself as Mira.
"Mr. Calein is at the office. He said you may choose any of the east wing rooms."
Not our room. Not a shared space.
Any of the east wing rooms.
As if I were a guest. Or worse, a tenant.
I chose the smallest of the rooms. Not out of humility, but because it was the only one with a window that opened.
Living in the estate was like living in a museum. Quiet, pristine, and heavy.
Mira came by three times a day with meals. She didn't linger. No one did. The staff moved like whispers, polite and precise.
I saw Richard only in passing that first week.
In the hallway.
In the dining room, once.
He was always dressed sharply, always speaking into a phone or scanning a tablet. We didn't talk. We nodded. Sometimes.
At night, the silence in the house pressed in on me.
I found myself walking the hallways just to hear my own footsteps.
On the tenth day, Mira left an envelope on the dining table during lunch.
Inside was a new credit card. My name embossed across the center.
A single note accompanied it:
"Use it for whatever you need. RC."
I stared at it for a long time before sliding it into a drawer.
Whatever I needed, I didn't think he could buy it.
I went back to work in the second week, now in a higher role, with a private desk and an office of my own.
Some people whispered when I returned.
Others were bolder.
"I heard she married him."
"To get a promotion, obviously."
"Does she even talk to him?"
I kept my head down. Focused on numbers. Reports. Forecasts. Anything to stay grounded.
Richard never visited my office. Never stopped by. But every document I approved, every policy I adjusted—it all went through him.
And none of it came back with red marks.
One night, I stayed late again. Not because of work, but because the silence of the estate was louder than the office buzz.
It was almost 10 p.m. when I left.
As I stepped into the underground parking, I saw a black car idling by the far pillar.
The window rolled down.
Richard.
"Get in," he said.
I hesitated.
"Please," he added, softer.
We didn't speak during the drive.
He took me to a small restaurant tucked between two massive buildings. No press. No entourage.
We sat at a corner table, far from the entrance. He ordered without asking me.
When the food came, I realized it was what I used to order from the office cafeteria. Lentil soup, garlic naan, and cucumber salad.
He noticed my glance. "I remembered."
I didn't know what to say to that.
Halfway through the meal, I asked, "Why did you marry me?"
He wiped his hands with a napkin. "I already told you."
"No, not the reasons. The real reason."
He didn't answer right away.
"I needed someone who wouldn't expect things I can't give."
"Like love?" I asked, quietly.
He looked at me then—really looked. "Like explanation."
We finished the meal in silence.
When we got home, I walked toward the east wing.
"Lara," he said behind me.
I turned.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, eyes unreadable.
"I'm not unkind," he said. "Just… unfinished."
Then he walked away.
And for the first time since entering this house, I felt something stir that wasn't resentment or exhaustion.
It was pity.
And perhaps… the beginning of understanding.