ALORA'S POV
I met Cassian when I was twenty one.
I worked at a bookstore café three blocks from Royce Corp. It was small and quiet, the kind of place people forgot existed unless they lived nearby.
We sold old paperbacks, secondhand hardcovers, and coffee that tasted better than it had any right to. The regulars tipped in coins. The bell above the door rang every time someone walked in.
And I loved that bell.
I loved knowing who would walk through the door before I even looked up.
Until the day I did not.
He came in wearing a dark suit that did not quite fit with the setting of my little shop. No briefcase. No phone in his hand. He moved slowly through the aisles, running his fingers along the spines without pulling a single book free.
He bought one. Paid in cash. And left.
He came back two days later.
Then again the next week.
Always alone. Always quiet. Always choosing a book and leaving without opening it.
One afternoon, I watched him from behind the counter while pretending to clean the espresso machine.
Mara leaned over and whispered, "That man is staring at you."
"I know," I muttered.
"Do you want me to spill coffee on him?"
"No."
"Well you are nicer than me."
That evening, I caught him standing in the poetry aisle again.
I walked over before I could talk myself out of it.
"You know," I said, resting my elbow on the shelf, "You don't always have to fake browsing through the books. We sell coffee too."
He lifted his eyes and looked at me. He looked really calm, but his eyes were assessing my face.
"I prefer the quiet," he said.
I smiled. "Then you picked the wrong place. We have a toddler story hour on Saturdays."
One corner of his mouth moved. It was close to being a smile.
"I like your voice," he replied.
I frowned. "Excuse me."
"The way you speak," he said. "It's measured. You choose your words wisely."
"And you buy books you never read," I said. "So I guess we both waste money."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Fair point."
He stepped closer towards me. His face lingering over mine, it was too close. But it wasn't a noticeable closeness.
"Do you read poetry," he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Well—mostly the sad ones."
"Then I assumed correctly," he replied, glancing at the Sylvia Plath book in my hand.
I laughed. "You have been paying attention."
"Dinner?" he said.
I blinked. "Is that supposed to be a question?"
"It is," he replied. "So I am asking—dinner?"
"You said you like quiet."
"I also enjoy contradiction."
I said no that night. And then I said yes the following week.
Three months later, I married him.
The wedding felt unreal. It was polished and really expensive. I wore a dress that cost more than my mother's house. People smiled at me without warmth. They congratulated him, not us.
His mother did not attend. And I didn't bother asking why.
At the reception, I leaned toward him and whispered, "She hates me."
"She hates everyone," he replied.
"That does not help."
"I did not marry her," he said. "I married you."
I held onto that sentence for years. People told me I was lucky. That I had won. That I was living a dream. They did not tell me dreams could also ruin your life.
At first, he tried.
Jewelry on my pillow. Flowers I never mentioned liking. Chocolate on dresser. New novels on the bed. Made my coffee exactly the way I liked it. It was truly like a dream come true.
One night, I asked, "Why tulips?"
"They seemed appropriate," he said.
"But they are my favorite."
He paused. "Are they?"
I told myself that love did not need to be all showy. That quiet men loved differently. That showing up mattered more than words.
Then the headlines started.
The first woman was blonde. An actress. The article called her his escape.
I threw the magazine at him that night and questioned him.
"What is this," I asked.
He glanced at it. "Nonsense."
"Is it true?"
He did not answer.
"Cassian!."
"You are my wife," he said.
"That does not answer the question."
He left the room without saying a word. I forced myself to believe it was nothing and forgave him.
Then came the brunette. A gallery curator.
Then the redhead. A dancer.
Then the latina. A model.
Each time it happened, I cried less.
One night, I stopped him at the door.
"Say anything," I said. "Lie to me if you have to. Tell me I still matter."
He did not turn around.
"I did not marry you for conversation," he replied.
That was when I stopped fighting. But my torture didn't end there. One time his mother cornered me at a fundraiser.
"You are fortunate," she said loudly. "Most girls from nowhere never sit at this table."
"I worked for my place," I replied calmly, which was a stark contrast to the desire to rip her face out in my head.
She smiled. "Some people serve tables, dear."
I smiled back until my face hurt.
Later, Zara asked me over brunch, "Why do you stay?"
I stared at my untouched food. "Because leaving feels worse."
I moved into the guest room not long after. I stopped looking in mirrors. I stopped reading. I stopped taking coffee. My happiness faded.
And now I sit on the edge of my bed, my dress still on, makeup smeared, and head aching.
I open my phone to a photo on my screen.
It was me.
Dancing and laughing with a man behind me, his hand at my waist.
I stared at it for a minute and then deleted it.
"It's irrelevant," I muttered to myself.
But I wasn't the one who took that photo.