Chapter 1: Living in solitude.

I never imagined that living this way could hurt so much. Living amidst silences and absences settles between two people who share a house, a bed, and a last name… but not a life. I'm sitting in front of the mirror in our bedroom, brushing my hair with slow, mechanical movements. Not because I need to, but because I don't know what else to do while I wait. I always wait. For Ethan. His arrival, his voice, his presence. The clock reads 11:47 p.m. I know him so well that I know he'll arrive after midnight. Always after midnight. As if the day only had room for him and his work, and I were an appendage he returns to when there's no energy left for anything else. I look at myself in the mirror and I struggle to recognize the woman who stares back at me. I don't look bad… I'm not neglected. I'm wearing a simple white silk nightgown, the one he gave me months ago on a business trip. He never noticed, never mentioned it… He never looked at me closely enough to realize I use it almost every night. Sometimes I think that if I suddenly disappeared, it would take Ethan days to notice. I set the brush down on the dresser when I hear the front door open. I don't jump, I don't smile. I don't get up right away either. I just take a deep breath, as if I'm preparing for something that, deep down, I already know. His footsteps echo through the house; firm, confident, tired. I know them so well that I could describe his mood just by the way he walks. Today he's exhausted. He enters the bedroom without knocking, loosening his tie as he walks straight to the bathroom. He doesn't even look at me. The door closes behind him, and the sound of running water fills the space his voice never occupies. "Hi," I say softly, knowing he won't hear me. Or maybe he will, but he doesn't answer. I get up from my seat and go to the bed, carefully straightening the bedspread that no one disturbed. Our bedroom always looks perfect, tidy, immaculate… just like our marriage. At least on the outside. When Ethan comes out of the bathroom, his hair is damp and his shirt is open to his chest. He's an attractive man. He always has been… Tall, confident, with that presence that fills any boardroom and makes everyone listen when he speaks. I watch him from the bed, as I have so many nights, wondering at what point I stopped being someone he wanted to look at. "How was your day?" I ask, trying to make my voice sound natural. He sits on the edge of the bed and checks something on his phone. "Long," he replies. Just that. Long. I nod, as if that word were enough to summarize hours, thoughts, emotions. As if that were all it took. "I ordered soup," I say. “It's in the kitchen, in case you're hungry. I can ask them to serve you.” Ethan sets his phone aside and takes off his watch. "I'm not hungry." He doesn't ask if I've eaten. He never does. He lies down beside me, maintaining a precise distance between our bodies. Not too close, not too far. Just enough distance so we don't seem like strangers… but not like husband and wife either. He turns off the light without asking. And there, in the darkness, I feel it again; that emptiness that opens in my chest, that silent certainty that has accompanied me for months. My marriage isn't a love story. It never was. I married Ethan Blackwood knowing there would be no romantic promises or passionate declarations. It was an agreement, an alliance. A pact that benefited both families and solidified his image as the young, brilliant, and stable CEO of New York. To the press, we were perfect. To high society, admirable. For me… it was a lonely life shared with someone who never chose me. Ethan isn't a cruel man. He's never yelled at me, never humiliated me, never raised his voice at me. But his indifference weighs more than any blow. We sleep in the same bed, we have breakfast at the same table. We attend events together. And yet, I feel like I live alone. Sometimes I wonder if he notices how little we talk. If he realizes that I know more about his schedule than his thoughts. That I know what time he gets home, but not what he feels. He's not in love with anyone. Not even me. And I know this because love leaves traces, even when it's hidden. And Ethan… leaves none. I turn away, my back to him, pretending sleep comes easily. He doesn't move, doesn't hug me, doesn't ask if I'm okay. Silence settles between us again. In the morning, everything is the same. I wake up before him, as usual. I go down to the kitchen and make the coffee myself. I put two cups on the table, even though I know I'll only use one. Ethan eats a quick breakfast standing up, checking emails, always in a rush. "I have an important meeting today," he says as he puts on his jacket. "I'll be late." Again. "That's fine," I reply. "Do you want me to keep you company tonight? There's a dinner with investors.” Ethan pauses for a second, as if the question has taken him by surprise. "It's not necessary," he says. "It's just work." I nod. I always nod. When the door closes behind him, I stand in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the two coffee cups. His is untouched. Cold. I silently clear everything away. I can't remember the last time we argued. Not because everything is fine, but because I've learned to keep quiet, to hold back my questions. To not demand. Because demanding implies expecting something in return. And I… I no longer know what to expect. Mid-morning, I check my schedule, organize calls, answer emails. My life revolves around keeping everything running smoothly, maintaining an image that seems perfect from the outside. In the afternoon, while reviewing invitations for an upcoming company event, I see his name on my phone screen. Ethan. My heart gives a small, absurd leap. “Yes?” I reply. “Can you send Vanessa the project documents?” he asks. “She needs them today.” Vanessa Reed. I swallow. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll send them now.” “Thanks.” The call cuts off. I stare at the phone’s blank screen for a few seconds, feeling that familiar pang in my chest. Vanessa is part of the work environment, that’s what I always tell myself. An external partner. A brilliant, ambitious, self-assured woman. A woman who doesn’t hide her interest in my husband. Ethan says I’m exaggerating. Or, rather, he never says anything. He doesn’t set boundaries. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t clarify. He assumes that if it’s not important to him, it shouldn’t be important to me either. But I see things he doesn’t see. Or doesn’t want to see. The lingering glances. The smiles heavy with meaning. The calls at inappropriate hours. And although I've never had real proof, every little detail accumulates inside me like a wound that never heals. I say nothing, I never say anything. At night, when Ethan comes home late again, I repeat the same routine. The waiting. The silence. The exact distance in bed. And as I stare at the ceiling in the darkness, a question forms in my mind, insistent, painful. How much longer can I live like this? I don't want to be a perfect wife just for others. I don't want to keep pretending this doesn't hurt. I don't want to keep loving a man who doesn't know—or doesn't want—to love me. I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe calmly. Tomorrow will be another day… That's what I always tell myself. But deep down, very deep down, something is starting to crack. And although I don't know it yet, this will be one of the last nights I sleep beside him feeling completely alone. The house falls silent again when Ethan leaves. This time it's not early. It's almost nine in the morning, and yet I feel his absence weigh just as heavily as ever. I stand in front of the study window, watching his car disappear into the distance, as if something inside me were hoping that, at the last second, he'd stop. That he'd come back. That he'd turn around. He doesn't, he never does. I take a deep breath and force myself to move. I have things to do, commitments to attend to, a life to sustain, even if no one notices the effort it takes. There's a company event today. A private reception organized for partners and foreign investors. Ethan said it wasn't necessary for me to attend, but his assistant sent me the invitation anyway. It's not the first time. To the world, I'm still Mrs. Blackwood. To Ethan… I'm an optional presence. Even so, I decide to go. Not for him, but for myself. Because I need to feel that I still exist beyond this silent house, beyond a marriage held together only by habit and appearances. I spend the morning carefully choosing my dress. I'm not looking for something provocative, but I don't want to disappear either. I decide on a dark blue one, elegant, understated, that just fits right. I put my hair up, leaving a few strands loose around my face, and apply light makeup. I look at myself in the mirror; I'm still me. The woman who once believed that time would make love grow. The one who thought that closeness would create something real. The one who settled for crumbs because she was told that's what marriage was like. The reception hall is full when I arrive. The warm lights, the overlapping conversations, the clinking of glasses. Everything sparkles. Everything seems perfect… As always. I walk among the guests with a polite smile, greeting those I recognize, exchanging trivial phrases that mean nothing. They ask me about Ethan, about the company, about upcoming projects. "He must be very busy," they say. "Always so dedicated." I nod, as if that doesn't hurt. I find him on the other side of the room, surrounded by people. He's impeccable, as always. Dark suit, firm posture, measured smile. He speaks with confidence, with that ease that makes him stand out. When someone listens to him, they feel they're in the presence of someone special. I felt it once too. I approach slowly, hoping he'll see me before I arrive, that he'll notice my presence. He doesn't. Vanessa turns first and looks at me. Vanessa Reed is exactly as I remember her. Tall, elegant, with a confident smile that seems rehearsed for every occasion. Her dress is light, striking without being over the top. She's standing too close to Ethan. "Clara," she says when she sees me. "It's so nice to see you." Her tone is friendly, but there's something in her gaze that isn't. "Vanessa," I reply, maintaining my composure. "Likewise." Ethan finally turns to face me. "I didn't know you were coming," he says. He doesn't sound annoyed. Nor pleased. Just surprised, as if he hadn't considered me part of the scene. "I received the invitation," I answer. "I thought it was appropriate." He nods, as if my presence were a logical decision, not something personal. "Of course." And that's it. He doesn't introduce me. He doesn't take my arm. There's none of that automatic gesture that successful marriages have. Vanessa speaks first. "We were talking about the new project in London," she says. "Ethan thinks it could expand faster than expected." She says this looking at him, not at me. "It's a possibility," Ethan replies. "There are still some details to work out." They talk for several minutes. I'm there, listening, smiling when necessary, but feeling invisible. I don't intervene. No one expects me to. At some point, Vanessa places her hand on Ethan's arm. It's a brief, seemingly innocent gesture. He doesn't move away. Something inside me tenses. It's not explosive jealousy. It's something more subtle. Sadder. It's the confirmation of something I've been avoiding accepting for a long time. I excuse myself with a smile. "I'll get something to drink." No one tries to stop me. I approach the bar and order a glass of wine. The first sip goes down slowly, burning hot. I rest my elbow on the polished surface and watch the reflection of the lounge in the mirror in front of me. Couples chatting, soft laughter, eye contact. And me… alone.