The proposal did not come with a ring.
It came with a folder.
We were sitting across from each other in a quiet private room above Langford & Sons, the restaurant closed for the night. The table between us held two glasses of water and a thin, neatly arranged stack of documents. Darius had arrived exactly on time, his coat folded over the back of his chair, his expression calm in a way that suggested this meeting had already been decided in his mind.
"This will solve everything," he said, tapping the folder once with his finger.
Not "this could."
Not "I hope."
"This will."
I didn't interrupt him. I had learned, by then, that Darius spoke best when he was allowed to finish his logic uninterrupted.
"The capital will stabilize your cash flow immediately," he continued. "Your suppliers will relax. The bank will reassess its position. There will be no interference with operations."
"And in return?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
"You become my wife."
The words still felt strange hearing them again, even though I had already accepted them in my mind days earlier.
"There will be no expectation of love," he added, as if anticipating my hesitation. "No performative affection in private. Only public appearances when necessary. Courtesy. Respect."
I studied him closely.
He wasn't nervous. He wasn't hopeful. He wasn't romantic.
He was practical.
"And if one of us wants out?" I asked.
He considered that for a moment. "Then we end it cleanly. Quietly. With dignity."
That word again.
Dignity had become the currency of our arrangement.
I nodded once. "Then I agree."
He didn't smile. He didn't reach across the table.
He extended his hand.
We shook on it.
That was the closest thing we had to a moment.
*****
The wedding happened quickly.
Too quickly for doubt to take root, too efficiently for sentiment to interfere.
Darius's team handled everything. Venue. Guests. Press management. The dress—a simple, elegant thing chosen not for drama but for restraint. My aunt Margaret cried softly when she saw me in it, her hands trembling as she adjusted the veil.
"You look beautiful," she said.
I believed her. But beauty felt incidental that day, like decoration rather than intention.
The ceremony itself passed in a blur of polite smiles and carefully curated moments. I walked down the aisle with steady steps, my heart strangely calm. Darius waited at the altar, tall and composed, his expression unreadable.
When we exchanged vows, they were traditional. Familiar. Empty in the way rehearsed words often are.
I promised partnership. He promised stability.
Neither of us promised love.
The kiss was brief. Correct. The applause warm but impersonal.
People were happy for us. Relieved, perhaps. The narrative made sense to them.
The restaurateur's daughter.
The rising CEO.
A union of legacy and ambition.
No one questioned it.
That night, after the last guest had left and the final congratulations had been exchanged, we returned to the penthouse Darius had purchased months earlier—long before I said yes.
It was immaculate. Neutral. Designed for someone who lived alone.
"This was meant to be temporary," he said, setting his jacket aside. "Until things settled."
I nodded. "It's fine."
We stood awkwardly in the living room, the reality of what we had done finally settling between us.
"Well," he said after a moment. "I suppose we should… talk."
We did.
Not about feelings. About schedules. Privacy. Boundaries.
"I travel often," he said. "Sometimes on short notice."
"I keep long hours at the restaurant," I replied. "Especially during events."
"Public appearances will be coordinated."
"Understood."
There was a pause.
"The bedroom," he said finally. "There's no obligation."
I looked at him. "That's not necessary."
He nodded, relieved. "Good."
We stood there a moment longer, two people who had agreed to share a life without knowing how to inhabit the same space.
In the end, we both laughed softly—an awkward, shared acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.
"Do you want tea?" I asked.
He blinked. "Tea?"
"It helps me sleep."
"Sure," he said. "That would be… fine."
The wedding night passed without ceremony.
We sat at the kitchen island, drinking tea in silence, occasionally commenting on the view or the weather. It felt less like the first night of a marriage and more like the first night in a foreign country—when everything was unfamiliar, and you spoke carefully, conscious of etiquette you hadn't yet learned.
Later, we retired to separate rooms.
Lying alone in the guest bedroom, I stared at the ceiling and listened to the distant sounds of the city. I felt no disappointment. No longing.
Only a quiet sense of resolve.
This was what preservation looked like.
*****
The first months settled into a rhythm.
Darius tried.
He remembered to ask about my day. He attended a few dinners at the restaurant, shaking hands with staff, listening attentively as if memorizing a role. He introduced me properly at events, his hand always steady at my back.
We were careful with each other.
Polite.
Learning.
Sometimes, late at night, we would sit in the living room and talk—not about us, but about our worlds. He explained board politics. I talked about suppliers and seasonal menus. It was interesting, in the way learning about a stranger's country could be interesting.
We respected each other's customs.
But there was no spark. No pull.
And I didn't miss it.
I had chosen this marriage the way one chose to preserve a historic building—not because it was thrilling, but because it mattered.
By the end of the first year, the effort waned.
Not suddenly. Just… naturally.
Darius stopped coming home for dinner. Then stopped apologizing for it. Our conversations shortened, drifting toward logistics and necessity.
We became efficient.
Housemates, in all but name.
I continued to care for him in the small ways that felt right—making sure his suits were sent out on time, reminding him of important dates, smoothing over social situations he preferred not to handle himself.
I was loyal.
Not because I loved him.
But because I had given my word.
He, meanwhile, began to reclaim the parts of himself he had set aside. Late nights. Rumors. Faces I pretended not to notice.
We never spoke of it.
By the time he asked for the divorce years later, I wasn't surprised.
The marriage had solved everything it was meant to solve.
The restaurant survived.
His image stabilized.
Our roles were fulfilled.
What remained was simply a matter of ending it as logically as it had begun.
And on that wedding night—sitting across from him in a quiet penthouse, drinking tea like strangers in a foreign place—I think we both knew this was never meant to last.
It was meant to hold.
And it had.