Episode 5 — The Marriage Contract

The Hunt residence is a mansion in Bel Air, all glass, marble, and cold, perfect silence.

I arrive the morning after the wedding with two suitcases and a heart full of hope I have no right to feel. Marcus is already there, wheeled into the study by his nurse, his face set in that familiar mask of stone.

"Sit down," he says.

I sit.

He doesn't look at me. He stares at the fireplace, his hands folded in his lap, and when he speaks, his voice is flat and clinical.

"This marriage is an obligation. Nothing more."

I don't answer. I've learned not to interrupt him.

"You will have your own rooms. You will not interfere with my personal life. You will not ask questions about Jade. You will not expect anything from me that I have not offered."

He pauses.

"And I have offered nothing."

The words land like blows. I keep my face still, my hands folded in my lap, my heart bleeding quietly inside my chest.

"I still love Jade," he continues. "I have no intention of pretending otherwise. If that's too difficult for you, you should have refused to marry me."

"I didn't have a choice."

"Neither did I." He finally looks at me—cold, distant, unreadable. "But we're both here now. So let me make the rules clear."

He lists them like a contract: No unexpected visits. No personal questions. No attempts to engage him in conversation beyond what's necessary. No expectations of affection, companionship, or intimacy.

"You are my wife in name only," he says. "Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He wheels himself out of the room without another word.

The days that follow are a study in silence.

I learn the rhythms of the house—the staff who avoid my eyes, the meals served in separate rooms, the long hours Marcus spends in his study with the door closed.

His parents visit often, bringing specialists, therapists, and rehabilitation equipment. They don't speak to me beyond polite greetings. I am furniture—useful, unobtrusive, forgettable.

One afternoon, I find Marcus in the rehabilitation room, struggling to lift himself from his wheelchair to the parallel bars. His face is slick with sweat, his jaw clenched with effort.

"Can I help?" I ask.

He freezes. Then, slowly, he turns to look at me.

"No."

"I just thought—"

"I said no." His voice is sharp. "I don't need your help. I don't need you hovering over me like I'm a child."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." He turns away. "The professionals are here to help me. Not you. Go find something else to do."

I leave. The door closes behind me, and I stand in the hallway, my hands trembling, my eyes burning.

That night, I sit alone in my room and think about Karina's words: You don't have to do this alone.

But I do. Because Marcus doesn't want me. Because his family doesn't see me. Because my own family sold me like a piece of property to save their name.

I pull out my phone and text Karina.

FREYA: He hates me.

KARINA: He doesn't hate you. He hates his situation. There's a difference.

FREYA: It doesn't feel different.

KARINA: Give it time. Give HIM time. He's been through hell.

FREYA: And what about me?

There's a long pause. Then:

KARINA: You've been through hell too. But you're still standing. That's what makes you stronger than him.

I stare at the message for a long time.

I don't feel strong. I feel like I'm drowning.

It happens a week later.

I'm in the library when I hear the crash—a heavy thud followed by a grunt of pain.

I run.

Marcus is on the floor of his bedroom, his wheelchair overturned beside him. He's trying to pull himself up, his arms shaking, his face twisted with pain and fury.

"Marcus—"

"Get out."

"You're hurt—"

"I said get out!" He slams his fist against the floor. "I don't need you. I don't want you. Leave me alone!"

I stand in the doorway, frozen.

He looks up at me—his eyes wild, his face pale, his body trembling with exhaustion and rage.

"I don't want your help," he says, quieter now. "I don't want your pity. I don't want you."

I know.

I've always known.

But hearing it—hearing him say it like that, like I'm nothing, like I'm less than nothing—breaks something inside me.

"Okay," I whisper.

I turn and walk away.

And when I reach my room, I close the door, sink to the floor, and cry until there are no tears left.