I quietly picked up my bag and walked back into the room.
The door closed behind me with a soft sound, but the silence inside felt heavy, almost suffocating. I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, my fingers tightening around the strap of the bag as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded.
A few minutes later, he returned.
This time, there was another file in his hand.
He walked in like he owned the space—not just the room, but the situation, the silence, and perhaps even my future. Without looking at me, he placed the file on the bed.
"This is the contract," he said calmly.
His voice carried no emotion. No hesitation. Just facts.
"Sign it tomorrow."
I looked at the file as if it might suddenly speak, as if it might explain what I was about to give away. Slowly, I picked it up. The weight of it felt heavier than paper should. My hands began to tremble, betraying the calm I was trying so hard to maintain.
"I only need one thing," he continued, his tone unchanged.
"That you don't make this marriage complicated."
Marriage.
The word echoed in my mind, hollow and unfamiliar.
I lifted my eyes and looked at him.
This man—
the man standing in front of me—
was my husband.
And yet, he felt like a complete stranger.
There was no warmth in his eyes, no curiosity, no attempt to understand the woman he was about to share a life with. He wasn't cruel. That would have been easier to accept. He was simply distant, controlled, and painfully indifferent.
"I only want to save my family," I said quietly.
The words barely left my lips, but they carried everything I was holding inside—fear, sacrifice, helplessness. I wasn't asking for love. I wasn't asking for kindness. I was asking for survival.
He didn't respond.
Not with words.
Not with a look.
He turned around and walked out of the room.
Just like that.
The door closed again, and this time the silence felt louder than before.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, watching shadows move slowly with the passing of time. Every thought I tried to escape found its way back to the same question.
Was I doing the right thing?
I thought about my parents.
About the debts.
About the choices that had led me here.
This marriage wasn't born out of love or destiny. It was a solution. A transaction. A last resort.
Somewhere between the ticking clock and my racing thoughts, tears quietly slipped into my hair, soaking the pillow beneath me. I didn't wipe them away. Crying felt useless now.
By morning, my eyes were dry, but my heart felt heavier than ever.
I sat at the table with the contract open in front of me.
Every page was filled with rules.
Boundaries.
Conditions.
It clearly stated what I was allowed to do—and what I wasn't. This marriage would exist only in name. There would be no expectations of affection, no claims of emotional involvement.
It was a contract designed to keep feelings out.
I picked up the pen.
For a moment, my hand hovered above the paper. This single movement would change everything. There would be no turning back after this.
Then I signed.
The moment the pen lifted from the page, something inside me shifted.
It felt as if I had handed my life over to someone else.
Not forcefully.
Not violently.
But willingly.
I was his wife now.
A contract wife.
A woman tied to a marriage where love had no place.
Or so I believed.
Days passed quietly after that.
We lived in the same house but in separate worlds. Conversations were rare and always brief. Practical. Necessary. Emotionless.
Yet, there were moments—small, unexpected moments—that made my heart pause.
The way he handed me a glass of water without looking at me.
The way he slowed his steps when he noticed I was walking behind him.
The way his gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before he looked away.
They meant nothing.
Or at least, that's what I told myself.
One evening, I found him in the living room, reading through some documents. I hesitated at the doorway, unsure whether I should speak.
"You can sit," he said suddenly, without lifting his eyes.
I sat across from him, my hands folded tightly in my lap.
"This arrangement," he said after a moment, "will remain exactly as we agreed."
I nodded.
"I won't interfere in your life," he continued. "And you won't interfere in mine."
Again, I nodded.
But something inside me felt unsettled.
Because the more he insisted on distance, the more aware I became of his presence. The sound of his footsteps. The quiet authority in his voice. The way the air seemed to change when he entered a room.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
A contract marriage wasn't supposed to feel like this.
Late at night, when the house was silent, I found myself wondering about him. About the man behind the control. About the reasons he needed this marriage as much as I did.
I didn't know it yet.
But the contract
the very thing meant to keep us distant
would soon fail to follow its own rules.
Because feelings don't ask for permission.
And love doesn't care about signatures on paper.
What began as an agreement would slowly turn into something neither of us was prepared for.
A marriage without love was what we signed for.
I signed the contract to save my family.
I didn't realize I had just become his wife…
and his problem...