The sun had barely broken through the haze of the morning when my phone buzzed.
A new message.
Calix Lazaro's parents invite you to lunch today. Formal. Dress accordingly.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the message.
Lunch.
With them.
The words carried the weight of everything I had trained to avoid: judgment, expectation, performance.
I didn't respond.
I never did.
I didn't need to.
I already knew the answer, of course I would go.
The polite world demanded it.
By noon, I found myself walking down the hallway of the condo, boots clicking against the polished floors, hair tied back in a tight braid.
I had told myself this wouldn't matter.
That I could step into their world without letting them see the cracks in my armor.
But somehow, I still felt the faint, familiar tension coil in my stomach.
Calix's unit was across from mine.
He hadn't responded to my text, which was fine.
I didn't expect him to.
I knocked once, twice.
The door swung open.
And there she was.
A woman.
Completely unclothed.
Hair tousled, eyes wide, expression startled.
"Who are you?" she demanded, voice sharp.
I raised an eyebrow. "I'm the wife," I said evenly, voice calm, collected.
No hesitation.
No heat. Just… fact.
The woman blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Your husband's wife. I believe that makes me the person you're interrupting."
Her jaw tightened, and she opened her mouth, but I didn't give her the courtesy of waiting for a response.
I stepped aside enough to enter.
Of course, Calix appeared at that moment, as though summoned by chaos itself.
Hair a mess, shirt partially unbuttoned, eyes widening in that lazy, playful way he always did when he had no idea how to navigate disaster.
"I… uh… Aurora," he said quickly, hands raised defensively. "I can explain."
I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe, silent.
My expression was sharp, distant, like the air around me had just hardened.
"I'm going to the restaurant," he said, a hint of desperation creeping into his usually composed tone. "Lunch with my parents. You're invited too. It's polite… necessary."
I didn't respond immediately.
I didn't feel the need.
I had heard all the reasons before.
Politeness.
Obligation.
Family expectation.
Control.
I had lived my life in the shadow of their expectations long enough.
I finally said, "I know where we're going."
He exhaled, shoulders lowering slightly.
Relief? Maybe. "Then… let's go."
We walked in silence down the corridor.
The woman, still bewildered and flushed, retreated into the apartment behind us without another word.
I didn't look back.
Didn't feel a flicker of jealousy, anger, or curiosity.
Disappointment, chaos, and betrayal were old companions, expected, predictable, irrelevant.
In the elevator, Calix tried again. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said softly.
I shrugged, indifferent. "Not my problem."
He hesitated, eyes flicking toward me. "You don't… ever get angry?"
"I've learned that anger changes nothing. Disappointment does less than nothing. I've grown used to it."
He didn't respond.
Didn't argue.
Didn't even sigh.
Somehow, that was worse.
That stillness carried weight, a recognition that my walls were absolute, impenetrable.
And maybe, for the first time, I realized he didn't want to break them.
He only wanted to exist beside them.
When we reached the car, he opened the door for me, an old-fashioned gesture I didn't acknowledge. I slipped in, the seatbelt clicked, hands folded in my lap.
The drive through the city was a slow blur of lights, wet streets reflecting the day's leftover rain.
I stared out the window, the buildings sharp, angular, untouchable, reminders of everything I had been trained to achieve, to endure, to survive.
Calix reached over, lightly brushing my hand.
I didn't pull away.
Didn't react.
I let it linger, a ghost of warmth in a day already crowded with expectations.
The restaurant came into view.
Expensive, polished, elegant in that way that reminded you money could buy appearances but not allegiance, not love, not peace.
He parked, closed the door behind me. "After you," he said, as if I needed permission.
I walked inside, chest lifted, expression distant.
Politeness, yes, but mine, cold, measured, untouchable.
And as his parents rose to greet us, I smiled lightly.
Not warm.
Not soft. Just… acknowledgement.
I had learned a long time ago that surviving them was enough.
Winning their approval? Impossible.
Calix's hand brushed mine briefly as we approached the table.
Silent reassurance.
I didn't need it. But I didn't push it away either.
Calix's parents stood as we approached, smiles practiced and precise.
They didn't need introductions.
They already knew me, the cold, distant wife, the one they'd silently evaluated at their previous dinner.
I gave them a small nod, acknowledgment without warmth.
Politeness, not charm.
That was enough.
"I trust the flight back went smoothly?" his mother asked, voice smooth as silk but sharp enough to carry scrutiny.
"Yes," I replied evenly, keeping my expression unreadable. "Smooth enough."
His father's gaze lingered briefly on me. "And Celeste performed admirably?"
"She did," I said. No hint of pride, no excuse for my third-place finish.
That was over. My loss was mine, my family's opinion irrelevant here.
Conversation flowed around me: travel, training, elite circles, business ventures.
I spoke only when necessary, each word measured.
No explanations.
No emotion.
Just enough to remain civil.
Calix stayed quiet beside me, letting me navigate this elite terrain alone.
Occasionally, his hand brushed mine, a soft, grounding reminder, but I ignored it. I didn't need reassurance.
I'd survived far worse.
Then the unavoidable moment came.
A sudden knock on his unit's door earlier had thrown me off, but now I understood its echo in my mind as I remembered the morning's incident: a woman, unclothed, startled, demanding to know who I was.
I had answered simply, without emotion: I am the wife.
The memory made my chest tighten slightly, not with anger, or jealousy, or confusion, but with the faintest acknowledgment that chaos was unavoidable when people refused boundaries.
Calix's parents would never see this.
But it didn't matter.
I had seen it.
I had endured it.
The lunch concluded with formalities intact.
My expression never wavered.
Politeness was enough.
Approval, unnecessary.
Disappointment? Expected.
Calix walked beside me to the car. "You did fine," he murmured.
"I did what was required," I said evenly. "That's all."
He exhaled softly, a mix of frustration and admiration. "You're impossible."
I let the words hang.
He wasn't wrong.
I was impossible.
But impossible was safer than fragile, safer than soft, safer than allowing anyone, no one, to see past the armor I had spent twenty-six years forging.