Claire didn’t kiss me when we stepped inside the apartment.
She stopped just beyond the doorway, clutching her purse tightly against her chest. Under the soft hallway light, her expression looked nervous—almost frightened.
“Adam,” she said quietly, “before anything else happens tonight, I need you to promise me something.”
A knot tightened in my stomach.
Even though our marriage was built on an agreement rather than love, I hadn’t expected any real surprises from her.
“Okay,” I said carefully. “What is it?”
She hesitated, forcing a faint smile.
“Whatever happens… please don’t panic. At least not until I explain.”
And standing there, on the first night of a marriage neither of us had expected to be real, I suddenly realized I might be stepping into a story far bigger than my own.
Every moment of my life—every cold family dinner, every impossible expectation, every woman who cared more about my surname than who I actually was—had somehow led me to this exact moment.
