The days after the wedding were unbearable in a way I hadn't anticipated. Living under the same roof as the man I once considered my enemy felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net. Every glance, every accidental brush of hands, set off an electric tension I couldn't ignore. I kept telling myself it was anger, or fear, or pride—but deep down, I knew it was something else. Something dangerously close to curiosity.
This morning, like every morning, he was already awake before me. The sound of his footsteps moving across the apartment made my chest tighten. I tried to focus on my coffee, letting the steam rise and warm my hands, pretending I didn't notice the way he moved with quiet precision, each step purposeful and calm.
"I made breakfast," he said, his voice echoing softly from the kitchen. "You should eat."
I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to acknowledge him. But the smell of eggs and toast was tempting, and hunger won over stubbornness. When I entered the kitchen, I found him plating food with a meticulous care I hadn't expected. The sight made my stomach twist—not from hunger, but from the strange, irritating sense that he cared.
"You don't have to do this," I said, my tone sharper than I intended.
He looked up at me, eyes dark and unreadable. "I don't do things for you," he said simply, setting the plate in front of me. "I do things because I know it's the smart choice."
I wanted to argue, to tell him that I didn't need his charity disguised as pragmatism. But the words stuck in my throat when I saw the faint curve of his jaw, the way the sunlight caught the edge of his hair. I hated that he could make me falter with just a look.
We ate in silence, each bite punctuated by the quiet rhythm of the apartment. The kind of silence that was suffocating, yet intimate in a way I couldn't define.
After breakfast, he stood and washed the dishes, the simple domesticity of it making my head spin. "You should take the day for yourself," he said without looking at me. "Read, go out… distract yourself. It'll make this easier."
I laughed bitterly, a humorless sound. "Distract myself? From what?"
"From… everything," he said, finally meeting my gaze. And in that moment, there was something raw, unguarded, in his eyes—a fleeting vulnerability I hadn't expected.
The truth was, despite my desire to keep him at arm's length, I found myself drawn to the way he moved, the way he spoke, the subtle authority that made it impossible to ignore him. I hated that I noticed it, hated that it unsettled me, but I couldn't deny it.
Later, when I returned to my room, I caught him watching me from the balcony. Our eyes met, and for the first time, I felt something unspoken pass between us—a question, a challenge, an acknowledgment that we were both aware of the tension simmering under the surface.
I looked away quickly, heart racing. This marriage was meant to be a cage, a punishment, but with every passing day, I realized it could also be a battlefield—and I was dangerously aware that I was not only fighting him, but also the unexpected pull he had over me.
And for the first time since last night, I wondered if surviving him might be harder than I imagined.