When the contract was signed, Clara and Elias were strangers bound by a family debt. Their wedding was a silent affair of cold marble and avoided eye glances. Living together felt like a choreographed dance of politeness—brief nods in the hallway and quiet dinners where the only sound was the clinking of silverware.
The shift happened on a rainy Tuesday. Clara fell ill, and instead of the expected indifference, she found Elias sitting by her bed, awkwardly reading her favorite book aloud. He didn't know the plot, but his deep voice was a sudden anchor.
Weeks later, the "business arrangement" dissolved into shared jokes over burnt toast and late-night conversations that stretched until dawn. They realized they hadn't just learned each other's habits; they had memorized each other's souls.
One evening, Elias took her hand, his thumb tracing the gold band that had once felt like a shackle. "I married a stranger to save a company," he whispered, "but I'd marry you again just to hear you laugh." In the house built on obligation, they finally found a home built on love.