Chapter 2

This absurd marriage wasn't even my idea, not really.

I first saw Sophia at a gallery opening during our senior year of college.

She stood in the center of the room, wearing a simple white gown, and she held the attention of everyone there without even trying.

I was completely captivated.

My bandmates had to physically shake me out of my trance.

"You're into Sophia Davis?"

Mark had said, laughing.

"Forget it, man."

"I knew her in art school."

"She didn't speak to a single guy for four years."

"Rumor was she'd throw out anything a man touched."

"People thought she was a lesbian, but she never showed any interest in women either."

Another friend chimed in, "She's a glacial peak, Ethan."

"You really want to crash and burn on that mountain?"

I just smiled and said nothing.

I was determined.

I poured all my feelings into a demo tape, a collection of songs I' d written just for her.

To everyone's shock, among the countless admirers who tried to get her attention, she accepted only my tape.

A month after graduation, we eloped.

There was no party, no ceremony, not even a ring at first.

My bandmates were envious, constantly asking when the wedding reception would be.

I just shook my head and told them Sophia preferred to keep things quiet.

Our marriage was halted almost before it began.

It was then that she first introduced the concept of my "artistic fragility."

Whenever I tried to get close to her, to bridge the physical and emotional gap between us, she would gently push me away.

"Ethan, your temperament is too sensitive,"

she would say, her eyes as cool and placid as a frozen lake.

"We can discuss this when you're stronger."

At first, I believed her.

I believed I would recover quickly.

But seven years passed, and I remained trapped by this fabricated ailment.

I was in a constant state of self-doubt, analyzing my every mood, my every creative block, as a symptom of my weakness.

Now, her lie seemed so transparent it was mocking.

A simple phrase, repeated over and over, was enough to completely deceive me for the better part of a decade.

My heart felt like it had been brutally battered, an agonizing, dull pain that never subsided.

She hadn't married me for love.

She had married me for convenience.

I was a cover, a shield for her scandalous, consuming affection for Liam.

Later that night, after the gig, Sophia emerged from her art studio.

She had been in there for hours, restoring a 17th-century painting.

Her usual cool demeanor was perfectly in place, as if the whispers in the dark had never happened.

I was lying in bed, sleepless, when I felt her presence beside me.

The mattress dipped, and a wave of heat radiated from her body.

Her lips, soft and hesitant, sought mine in the darkness.

It felt like finding an oasis in a desert I had been wandering for seven years.

On pure instinct, I embraced her.

My arms wrapped around her, pulling her close.

Our lips were inches apart, the closest we had been in years.

I could feel her breath on my skin.

Then, just as my last shred of hope began to flicker back to life, she let out a muffled groan.

"Liam... My Liam..."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

My blood ran cold, and a wave of nausea washed over me.

I sprang from the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, flipping on the light.

The man in the mirror was a wreck.

His eyes were wide with a mixture of horror and heartbreak, his face pale and drawn.

Ethan, Ethan, you're just a stand-in, I thought, my reflection mocking me.

You're just a substitute for someone else's desire.

That uncontrolled utterance of his name crushed the last shred of hope I had been clinging to.

The careful dam I had built around my emotions broke, and I could no longer hold back the tears.

I leaned over the sink, my body shaking with uncontrollable sobs, the sound raw and desperate in the sterile white room.