I often wonder if fairy tales leave out the lonely parts. From the outside, my life looks perfect. A sprawling countryside mansion rests in the middle of rolling green hills, surrounded by trees that sway gently in the wind. The driveway is lined with gleaming cars, their polished surfaces reflecting sunlight like mirrors. Staff move quietly through the hallways, attending to every need, as if I am royalty in a castle. And then there is my husband, Maxwell Deverell. He is not just any man. He is the CEO of one of the world's largest pharmaceutical companies, a billionaire, a man whose presence commands respect, whose name opens doors, and whose word carries weight across continents. People bow to him, not out of kindness, but out of awe.
And yet, behind closed doors, it is not what it seems.
Five years ago, I was no one special. I was just a small-town librarian, quietly arranging books on shelves, inhaling the scent of ink and paper, and living between the pages of stories because real life had never offered me much. I was invisible in my own way, happy to stay small and unnoticed. Then he appeared. Maxwell Deverell. My very own Cinderella moment, though instead of glass slippers, it was a cigarette that brought us together.
I remember that afternoon outside the children's library as if it happened yesterday. I had stepped out for a smoke, a small rebellion against a life that always felt too narrow, too quiet. And he was not supposed to be there. Maxwell Deverell had come for a photo opportunity. Cameras flashed, people smiled, and a donation was presented to the library, enough to keep it running for another few months. Everyone hovered around him, whispering, bowing, admiring. He was larger than life, untouchable, perfect.
And then he slipped away. And so did I.
I had been hiding behind the excuse of a cigarette when he appeared. I saw him as no one else did not the polished image the world adored, but real. His tie was loose, his hair messy, and his tall frame moved with a kind of restless energy that made him seem both powerful and vulnerable at the same time.
"You know those things will kill you," he said quietly, nodding at the cigarette between my fingers.
I exhaled smoke slowly, letting it curl into the air. "And what is money doing for you?" I shot back. "Does not seem to make you happy."
He laughed, a real laugh, not the rehearsed smile he must have given for cameras. It was raw, almost boyish, and for a moment, it felt like the world had fallen away. Just us, two strangers leaning against a brick wall, talking about nothing and everything.
That day stretched in ways I did not expect. He did not leave immediately, and neither did I. We shared thoughts about freedom, about being caged by expectations, about how life could feel too heavy when people told you who you should be. For the first time in my life, someone listened. Truly listened. As if my words mattered, as if they could touch someone else's heart.
I remember noticing the way his eyes softened when he laughed, how he seemed to take in everything around him with quiet attention. The sunlight hit his hair just so, giving him a warmth I could not stop staring at. I had felt small and unimportant my whole life, and yet in those moments, he made me feel like the only person in the world. He asked me about books I loved, about moments I cherished in silence, about dreams I had not dared to voice aloud. I told him everything, not realizing how much I wanted someone to hear it all.
After that, he kept coming back. He claimed he needed the quiet of the library to think, but I knew better. He found me in corners with ink-stained fingers, cataloging old books or lost in a story. He would sit across from me, a book open in front of him but unread. Instead, he asked questions. Questions that dug deep, questions that made me think about what I wanted, what I feared, and what I secretly dreamed about when no one was watching.
One night, when the library was ours alone, I reached for a misplaced copy of Wuthering Heights at the same time he did. Our hands did not just touch. They collided, sweaty and tense, gripping the spine like it was a lifeline.
"I should go," I whispered, pulling back, already moving away.
His hand slammed against the metal shelf beside my head. "Do not," he growled, his voice low and rough. Before I could respond, his mouth was on mine. Hard. Urgent. No hesitation, no care for the world around us. His kiss tasted of stale coffee and restless need, and it pulled me under immediately.
I stumbled back against the circulation desk, books crashing to the floor, but I did not care. His hands gripped my waist tightly, tugging at my skirt like it was in the way. I clawed at his tie, yanking it loose, desperate to feel him closer. It was not tender. It was not sweet. It was messy and urgent, two people colliding after years of being caged and ignored. He pushed my dress down, careless, and I barely noticed his suit jacket dropping beside it.
Skin to skin, he was all heat and muscle, pressing me back until my nails dug into his shoulders. He moved like a man starving, like he had been waiting for this moment for years. And I let him. I let him devour me completely, letting go of all control, all caution. The books scattered around us. A mug rolled across the floor and shattered. None of it mattered. Only him. Only that moment. Only the hunger that consumed both of us.
We stayed there all night. The library, the books, the lamplight, and the chaos became a private world where nothing else existed. I gave myself to him without thought, without hesitation, without concern for the consequences. He was every fairy tale promise I had ever dreamed of, but also every dangerous secret I could never have imagined.
Now, five years later, Maxwell barely looks at me. We live in a mansion, yet silence stretches longer and heavier than any fight. Nights are the worst. I lie awake, listening for the sound of his footsteps in the hall, hoping, waiting. But I know the routine. He will turn down the opposite wing, heading to his office or maybe a guest room. My hope dissolves every night.
I sit at my vanity, brushing powder across my cheeks, pinning diamonds to my ears, rehearsing the cold, perfect smile I will wear tonight. Another charity gala. Another evening surrounded by champagne glasses, polite laughter, and women pretending to care about one another. These events are always full of the wives of his business rivals. Perfectly coiffed, polished, and practiced.
I do not like them. Not one of them. They are all performing the same role I am beautiful, polished, untouchable. They praise jewelry and gowns while ignoring the emptiness behind my eyes. I brush my hair once more and fasten the last earring. The diamond feels heavy, like a manacle, a weight that reminds me of the cage I live in.
I take a deep breath and look at myself in the mirror. The diamonds sparkle, the dress fits perfectly, my hair is flawless. On the outside, I am everything the world expects. The perfect wife, the perfect fairy tale. But inside, I feel small and empty, like the girl I used to be the one who leaned against the library wall, smoking a cigarette, staring at someone who truly saw her. That girl is still here, buried beneath gowns and jewels, waiting for something real, something messy, something that reminds her she is alive.
I think of that night in the library, the way he had pressed me against the desk, the chaos of falling books around us, the urgency of a kiss that made me feel wanted in a way I had never been before. I remember the warmth of his body, the strength of his hands, the way he had looked at me like I mattered more than anything else in the world. And now, five years later, I feel that same longing, that same ache in my chest for a love that has grown distant, for a fire that has turned into silence.
Tonight, I will wear the mask. I will smile. I will pretend that everything is as perfect as it appears. But inside, I will remember the fire, the hunger, and the love that once made me feel alive. I will remember the girl who leaned against a brick wall, smoking a cigarette, staring into eyes that truly saw her, and I will hold on to her, even if the world does not notice. Even if Maxwell does not notice.