Julien Moreau had mastered the art of being absent.
He existed in documents, not photographs. In signatures, not interviews. His name surfaced in discreet financial columns and vanished just as quickly, leaving behind figures that reshaped industries. Airports knew him better than cities. Hotel rooms recognized his silence. People, however, rarely did.
He preferred it that way.
At thirty-four, Julien had learned that visibility invited questions, and questions led to attachment. Attachment led to expectation. Expectation led to disappointment. His life had been carefully constructed to avoid all four.
Zurich welcomed him back without ceremony.
The city had always been orderly—its streets clean, its air precise, its people restrained. It matched him. As the car glided through familiar roads, Julien watched the city through the tinted window, noticing how little he felt. Home should have stirred something. It didn't.
Emotion was inefficient.
His phone buzzed once. A message from the hospital. Room 417. He's awake.
Julien closed his eyes briefly.
Henri Moreau did not summon people unless time was short.
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and inevitability. Machines hummed softly, as if conspiring to keep secrets. When Julien entered the room, his grandfather lay propped against white pillows, thinner than memory allowed but no less commanding.
"You came quickly," Henri said.
"I was nearby," Julien replied, removing his coat. A lie. He had flown in overnight from Singapore.
Henri's eyes sharpened. "You always say that."
Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, merely familiar. They had never been a family of excess words.
"I won't waste your time," Henri said at last. "I don't have much of it left."
Julien nodded once.
"There are things that cannot be delayed anymore," Henri continued. "You have postponed life long enough."
Julien felt irritation stir faintly. "If this is about heirs—"
"It is about stability," Henri interrupted. "And you are not stable."
Julien almost smiled. "I run five multinational divisions."
"You avoid everything that requires emotional presence."
That landed harder than expected.
Henri shifted slightly, wincing. "You live abroad. You disappear into work. You treat people like temporary arrangements."
Julien said nothing.
"Which is why," Henri continued, "you will marry."
The word hovered in the air, absurd and heavy.
Julien exhaled slowly. "I don't date."
"This is not dating."
"I don't want a relationship."
"This is not love."
Julien turned fully toward him now. "Then what exactly is it?"
Henri gestured weakly toward the side table. A folder rested there, thick and meticulously organized.
"A contract."
Julien picked it up, flipping through pages with a practiced eye. Legal language. Property clauses. Confidentiality agreements. No emotional obligations. No public exposure. Shared residence required.
He stopped at the name.
Isolde Rainer.
"Who is she?" Julien asked.
"A woman who understands silence," Henri replied. "And who will not demand what you refuse to give."
Julien frowned. "You want me to marry a stranger."
"You already live among strangers," Henri said. "At least this one will stay."
Julien closed the folder. "I won't pretend."
"You won't need to," Henri said calmly. "This marriage is not built on illusion. It is built on agreement."
A pause.
"Have you met her?" Julien asked.
"No."
"Does she know me?"
"She knows what matters."
Julien felt something unfamiliar—a tightening he didn't like. "And if I refuse?"
Henri's gaze softened, but his voice did not. "Then you will continue surviving instead of living."
Julien looked away.
Years ago, another woman had stood at the edge of his life, promising patience, promising permanence. Elise had sworn she understood his silences. And then, one ordinary morning, she vanished—without explanation, without closure, without mercy.
Julien had learned his lesson.
People left.
Contracts stayed.
He returned the folder to the table. "When?"
"In two weeks."
"No meeting?"
"No courtship."
Julien nodded slowly. "Fine."
Henri studied him. "You are agreeing too easily."
"I know how to honor contracts," Julien said. "Nothing more."
Henri smiled faintly. "That is all I am asking."
When Julien left the hospital, snow had begun to fall. He stood outside for a moment, letting the cold bite into his skin.
A wife.
A stranger.
A signed marriage.
He felt nothing.
And that, more than anything, worried him.