She covered her face and cried in the middle of the kitchen while I stood there and let her decide whether to cross the distance between us.
She did.
Months later, when the original twelve-month date finally arrived, Regina brought the old contract home from her office.
We sat at the same dining table where I had asked about Julian.
She placed the contract between us.
“Technically,” she said, “today is the last day.”
I picked up the pages.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Twelve months.
Zero feelings.
The clause looked ridiculous now.
“We failed this part pretty badly,” I said.
Regina laughed.
A real laugh.
Then she took the contract and tore it cleanly in half.
She didn’t tear our marriage certificate.
Neither did I.
The money had saved my mother’s life.
The truth had nearly ended ours.
But the strange thing about finally being free was that neither Regina nor I had to pretend anymore.
There were no cameras in the kitchen that morning.
No lawyers.
No family watching.
No contract requiring affection.
Regina slid my coffee across the table and reached for my hand.
This time, when I held hers, it wasn’t because she was my boss.
It wasn’t because I was desperate.
It wasn’t because anyone had paid me.
And for the first time since she had asked me to become her husband, neither of us was trembling.
