Our lives were separated by distance, even if the distance was measured in meters, not miles.
Huy and I lived in the guest villa, while his grandmother and father stayed in the main house. Both villas stood inside the same sprawling estate, two elegant structures facing each other across a garden of trimmed hedges and stone pathways. The short walk between them was no more than a few dozen steps, yet it felt like an unspoken boundary line. Our quiet, restrained existence never raised suspicion from the main house.
Why would it?
His father already knew the truth: sooner or later, this marriage would end. It had been born out of purpose, not affection. When that purpose was fulfilled, the marriage would dissolve. To him, I was never a daughter-in-law—merely a placeholder, a tool.
That thought should have left me indifferent, but tonight, for the first time, I felt a pang of loneliness. If I weren't bound to Huy by this hollow contract, perhaps I would've been laughing with my colleagues at the celebration, raising a glass of champagne instead of hiding away. Instead, I had chosen this path with my own hands. I married him knowing the deal, knowing the cost. And now, every company gathering was a reminder that I belonged in the shadows, while he stood dazzling in the light.
I didn't love Huy. He didn't love me. That much was clear.
But to his credit, he had never failed me as a husband in the ways that mattered on the surface. He reminded me to eat, asked if I was sleeping well, accompanied me to visit my parents when duty called. Yet he never pried into my private life, never questioned my friends or my habits, never once reached across the distance between us to touch me.
That was what set him apart from ordinary men. A man of willpower did what was necessary, regardless of preference. He played the role perfectly, without complaint, without hesitation.
I was not like him. My façade cracked too easily. Tonight, my mood slipped through the cracks, heavy and undeniable.
I soaked in the bath longer than usual, the water cooling around me, my thoughts heavier than the steam that had already faded from the mirror. When I finally stepped out, lazy and half-drowsy, towel wrapped around me, I froze.
Huy was there. Sitting on the sofa, silent, as though he had been waiting.
I forced a casual tone. "You're back already?"
"Yes. Came home after the party." His reply was simple, unbothered.
"Are you hungry? I can ask Ms. Xuan to make something for you."
"No need. I'm fine. Dry your hair before you sleep."
"Alright."
I plugged in the hairdryer, its soft hum filling the room. My fingers combed through damp strands, the warmth brushing across my scalp. Then his voice cut through, calm yet sudden.
"Did you usually avoid company events like this, even before we married?"
I glanced at him. He sat with one arm draped across the back of the sofa, his posture relaxed, almost too casual. His question felt offhand, like small talk between friends.
"Not exactly," I said over the noise of the dryer. "I only left early if I had something important."
"Did you have something important tonight?"
"…I had personal matters."
That word—personal—was always enough to draw the line. True to form, he didn't push. Instead, his eyes lingered on me for a moment, unreadable, before he spoke again.
"If it's ever something you can't handle, you can tell me. You don't need to cut yourself off the way you did tonight."
I turned off the dryer, meeting his gaze in the dim light. His expression was calm, not demanding, not invasive—just steady.
"I can handle my own matters," I said quietly. "You have your work. Let me take care of myself."
He didn't flinch. "We're husband and wife. There's nothing troublesome in helping each other."
The words should have sounded ordinary, but something about them unsettled me. He spoke so naturally, as if we were a normal couple, as if this wasn't a marriage signed on paper with an expiration date stamped on it. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw something in his eyes—a softness, maybe curiosity—but it disappeared too quickly to grasp.
I forced a smile, unwilling to chase shadows. "I understand."
He nodded slightly, then shifted topics with the same effortless composure. "Tomorrow, you should visit Grandmother. She hasn't been feeling well, and she mentioned you."
My heart tightened. "She's sick?"
"Her kidneys have worsened. Dialysis isn't helping much anymore."
"I'll go see her tomorrow."
"Good." His voice was quiet, final.
The room fell silent again, filled only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Outside, the garden lights spilled across the lawn, throwing long shadows that stretched toward the villa. I dried the last strands of my hair, stealing one more glance at the man on the sofa. Calm, unreadable, always in control.
The perfect husband. The model man.
And yet, he was still a stranger to me.