Married to my enemy

Elara 's POV.

“A wife of mine doesn’t need a career.”

The words don’t just echo, they settle into my bones as I stand in his study room, my back presses against the cold wall.

I bring him the invitation, the Philharmonic, asking me to play. A single concert.

I thought he would be proud, he might finally look at me the way he used to, before the ring was on my finger.

He looks at me like I’ve handed him something embarrassing.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “This is what I trained for. This is who I am.”

“You’re my wife now.” He doesn’t look up from his papers. “That’s who you are.”

“But Adrian…”

His fingers pause briefly on the paper before he speaks.

“I don’t care about your little hobby. The conversation is over.”

I open my mouth to argue. To tell him that music isn’t a hobby, it’s my blood, my breath, the only thing that makes me feel like myself.

He stands. Walks past me without a glance. The door closes behind him, and I am alone in his study, holding an invitation that suddenly feels like a joke.

My feet carry me to the end of the corridor, where a closed door waits. My music room. I haven’t opened it in ten years. Not since the day he told me I needed to be submissive.

My hand rises. My fingers touch the brass handle.

I could open it. I could sit at the piano and let my fingers find the keys, let Chopin remind me who I was before I became Mrs. Sterling.

I pull my hand back and walk away. Near the kitchen, voices slip through a door left slightly open.

“Does she even do anything all day?” A maid. I recognize the voice.

“Nothing,” another answers. “Just walk around. Like she’s waiting for something.”

A low laugh. “Sometimes I forget she’s even here.”

My feet stop. My hand grips the doorframe. I could step forward. I could show them I am flesh and blood, that I have a name and a history and fingers that once made audiences weep.

Instead, I turn and walk back the way I came.

I don’t know how long I’ve been dozing on the couch, but I am jolted awake by the bang of the door.

Adrian walks in. My eyes dart to the clock. Nine o’clock.

I have been waiting since six. The dining table is set with his favorites, lamb, roasted potatoes, and a red wine from the bottle he opened on our anniversary. Candles burn low, their light flickering against the silverware.

I hear his key in the lock. I straighten my dress. A bum short and hoodie, because he never notices what I wear anyway.

He walks past the dining room without slowing.

“Adrian.” My voice comes out thin. “I made dinner. Your favorite.”

He stops. For one breath, hope flickers.

He doesn’t turn around.

“I ate out. Don’t wait for me.”

His footsteps fade down the hall. A door opens, then closes. His study. The lock clicks.

I stand in the dining room alone. The candles gutter. The lamb grows cold. I pull out my chair and sit because my legs won’t hold me anymore.

I eat nothing. I drink the wine.

Before bed, I find myself outside his study.

I tell myself I am only passing by. I pretend I don’t expect anything.

But my feet have carried me here, to this door,.to the sound of his voice inside.

I raise my hand to knock.

Then I hear him let out a low and easy laugh. I haven’t heard him laugh like that in years. I don’t recognize the voice on the other end of the phone, but I recognize the warmth in his tone. The warmth he used to give me. Before.

I lower my hand and I turn away.

And that’s when I see it. A small bottle on the side table, the vitamins. He started me on them early in the marriage.

"For your health," he said. "I want to take care of you."

I have taken one every night for ten years without question. I picked up the bottle and unscrew the cap and shake one pill into my palm.

He said they would keep me healthy. I place it on my tongue and swallow. Ten years of these little white tablets.

I wonder, sometimes, if I am being treated like this because I can't bear children for him.

I go to bed alone as usual.

The next morning, I found his phone on the kitchen counter.

I never touch his things. I learned early that my presence in his world is tolerated only within certain borders.

But the screen lights up as I pass, and my eyes catch the notification before I can look away.

“I’m coming home. Will you be there to meet me?”

The contact is a single letter. S.

My hand trembles. I set down the tray I was carrying, coffee sloshes over the rim.

I stare at the message. Sophia. Her name rises from a place I’ve tried to bury.

My hand drops from the phone.

I walk to the window and press my forehead against the cold glass. If I am nothing to him now, what will I be when she arrives?

The answer sits in my chest like a stone I’ve been swallowing for ten years.

I already know.