It was a beautiful wedding. Expensive. Magazine-worthy. And deeply hollow.
Julia was never the problem. That was the hardest part.
She was kind. Smart. Affectionate in all the right ways. She wanted a family. She wanted a life.
But Dominic couldn’t give her all of himself. Because he didn’t have all of himself to give. Every day was a negotiation with shame. Every night, lying next to her, was an act of suppression.
At first, he thought he could push through it. He told himself the feelings—the dreams, the fantasies—were just residue. Just confusion. That it would fade.
But it didn’t fade. It grew louder. More persistent.
And Julia wasn’t stupid.
One night, three years into their marriage, she sat across from him at dinner, her eyes shadowed, fingers tight around her wine glass.
“Do you love me?” she asked softly.
Dominic froze, knife halfway through a piece of chicken. “Of course I do.”
“No,” she said. “Not like that. I mean really. Do you love me the way a husband is supposed to?”
H
