ROMAN'S POV
I met his wife.
Sat across from her in a restaurant and looked at the woman who gets to be called his.
And she looked back at me and said: "You're his obsession. That's what you are."
I haven't been able to stop thinking about that.
The lunch was three weeks ago.
Khalid set it up. Said Amira demanded to meet me.
I should have said no. Should have refused. Should have maintained some dignity.
Instead I showed up.
Because he asked. Because I can't say no to him.
Because I'm pathetic.
She's younger than I expected.
28. Beautiful. Poised. Everything a princess should be.
She looked at me like she was trying to understand. Like I was a puzzle she needed to solve.
"Why are you okay with this?" she asked.
And I said: "I'm not okay with it."
"Then why are you doing it?"
"Because I love him."
Like that explains anything. Like love justifies being someone's mistress.
The moment she said "obsession" the entire table went quiet.
"You're not in competition with me. You're his wife. I'm his—"
I couldn't finish. Because I didn't know what to say.
Girlfriend? Too legitimate.
Mistress? Too simple.
Secret? Too temporary.
And she said it for me: "His obsession."
That's what I am.
Not a person. Not a partner. Not even a proper affair.
Just—an obsession he can't quit.
I got drunk that night.
Really drunk. The kind where you call your ex at 2 AM and say things you can't take back.
Except Khalid's not my ex. He's my—
I still don't have a word for it.
He showed up at my place and I told him to leave.
"You need to leave."
"What's wrong?"
"Everything."
And then I said it. The thing I've been thinking for months.
"I'm waiting for scraps of time from a married man."
He tried to argue. Tried to say it wasn't like that.
But it is like that. That's exactly what it is.
I'm the woman he fucks when his wife isn't around.
We didn't talk for three days after.
Longest silence since the wedding.
I kept checking my phone. Waiting for him to call. To text. To show up.
He didn't.
And I realized: this is what it would feel like if he actually left.
This silence. This absence. This—nothing.
I couldn't breathe for three days.
He showed up on day four.
2 AM. Like always.
I let him in. Like always.
We didn't talk. Just held each other.
And I thought: this is my life now. Holding a married man at 2 AM. Being grateful for scraps.
Being his obsession.
Here's what's haunting me:
Amira said she can't compete with what we have.
With the obsession. With the intensity.
She's not wrong. She can't compete. Nobody could.
But what does that say about me?
That I'm so obsessed with him that a literal princess can't compete?
That I've organized my entire life around being available to a man who belongs to someone else?
That I'm okay being second as long as I'm obsessed-with?
I keep thinking about her face when Khalid told her the truth.
"Do you love her?"
"Yes."
"More than you could ever love me."
"Yes."
No hesitation. No softening. Just—yes.
She looked like he'd slapped her.
And I sat there feeling—what? Triumphant? Guilty? Both?
Both.
Because I won but the prize is being someone's obsession instead of someone's wife.
Avery asked how the lunch went.
"Awful."
"What happened?"
"I met his wife and realized I'll never be that. I'll never be the one he introduces to his family. The one who gets the ring and the vows and the public commitment."
"So leave."
"I can't."
"You can. You just won't."
"Same thing."
"It's not." She looked at me. "You're choosing this. Every day. You're choosing to be the obsession instead of demanding to be the priority."
"I am the priority."
"Are you? Because he's married to someone else."
I didn't have an answer.
Here's what I'm realizing:
I used to be someone. The wildchild. The actress. The woman who didn't need anyone.
Now I'm—what?
The married man's girlfriend. The obsession. The woman waiting at home for him to finish playing husband.
When did I become this person?
Leny called last week about the London project.
Still available. Six months. Starts in two months.
"You should take it," he said.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't leave."
"You mean you can't leave him."
"Yes."
"Roman, you're destroying yourself for a man who's married to someone else."
"I know."
"Then stop."
"I can't."
He hung up frustrated.
I don't blame him.
I looked up Amira on Instagram last night.
She posts rarely. Mostly charity work. Official palace events. Her life looks perfect.
There's one photo of her and Khalid. From the wedding. She's smiling. He's looking at the camera.
Not at her. At the camera.
I zoomed in on his face. Trying to see what I see when he looks at me.
It's not there. The obsession. The intensity.
With Amira he looks—polite. Distant.
With me he looks—consumed.
Is that better? Being the one he's consumed by instead of the one he's married to?
I don't know anymore.
The drunk night keeps replaying.
"What am I to you?"
And he couldn't answer. Just stood there looking lost.
Because there is no word for what I am.
Mistress implies secretive but temporary.
Girlfriend implies legitimacy.
Partner implies equality.
I'm none of those things.
I'm the woman he can't quit. The obsession. The one who makes him leave his wife's presence to show up at my door at 2 AM.
That's not a role. That's not a title.
That's just—fucked up.
My neck itched yesterday.
First time in weeks.
I was thinking about Amira. About the fact that she gets to be called his wife while I get to be called—nothing.
The itch was there. Under my skin. Familiar.
I didn't scratch. Just sat there with my hands clenched.
Counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.
The urge passed.
But it was there. Still there. Waiting.
He asked me last night if I'm okay.
"No."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing. There's nothing you can do. You're married. I'm—whatever I am. And we're stuck like this."
"We're not stuck. We're choosing."
"You're choosing. I'm just—surviving."
"Roman—"
"Don't. Don't try to make this okay. It's not okay. I met your wife. I looked her in the eye and realized I'm the reason she's miserable. I'm the reason you're lying. I'm the reason this entire arrangement exists."
"You're also the reason I'm alive."
"That's dramatic."
"It's true. Without you I'm just—duty and obligation and family expectations. With you I'm—"
"Obsessed."
"Yes. Obsessed. And I'd rather be obsessed than dead inside."
I didn't know what to say to that.
Here's what scares me most:
That this becomes permanent.
That I spend the next twenty years being his obsession while he's married to someone else.
That I never get to be called his. Never get to be introduced as his girlfriend. Never get to have him publicly.
That I'm always second. Always hidden. Always waiting.
And that I'm okay with it. Because I love him.
That's the scariest part. That I'll accept this forever because I can't leave him.
Randall texted yesterday.
How are you?
Not good
Still with him?
Yes
You deserve better
I know
But I'm not leaving. Because deserving better doesn't mean getting better.
It just means being alone. And I'd rather be his obsession than be without him.
That's how far I've fallen.
It's 4 AM.
Khalid is asleep in my bed. His wife is in Dubai. Probably asleep in their house.
And I'm lying here thinking about the word "obsession."
Not girlfriend. Not partner. Not wife.
Obsession.
That's what Amira called me. That's what I am.
The thing he can't quit. The thing he married someone else to keep. The thing that's destroying everyone involved.
And I'm okay with it. With being that. With being his obsession instead of his wife.
Because at least I'm his something.
At least when he looks at me, he's consumed.
At least I matter.
Even if the way I matter is unhealthy and unsustainable and probably destroying both of us.
It's better than not mattering at all.
Right?