For the first year, Darius tried.
Not dramatically. Not clumsily. But with the same deliberate focus he brought to everything else in his life.
He came home most nights. Not early, but reliably. He would loosen his tie, set his phone aside, and sit across from me at the dining table as if presence itself were a task he had scheduled and intended to complete properly.
"How was your day?" he asked.
I learned to answer honestly, but briefly. He didn't want stories. He wanted summaries.
Still, he listened.
He attended dinners at Langford & Sons—real ones, not the obligatory appearances that would come later. He spoke to the staff by name after being introduced twice. He complimented the food with the careful enthusiasm of a man who understood that appreciation, like investment, needed to be visible.
"It's good," he said once, after tasting a dish my father had perfected decades ago. "Consistent."
I smiled. Consistent was high praise from Darius.
On weekends, he invited me into his world.
Basketball games with his friends—men like him, sharp-edged and loud, competitive even in leisure. I sat on the court side with the other wives and girlfriends, learning faces, names, the rules of a game I didn't particularly enjoy but didn't mind learning.
Darius checked on me during timeouts. Asked if I was cold. Offered me his jacket once, awkwardly, as if unsure whether that gesture was expected.
I took it.
There were moments—small, unguarded ones—when we laughed easily. When the tension between us eased enough to feel almost like companionship.
Sometimes, late at night, we would sit on opposite ends of the couch, each absorbed in our own thoughts, the silence comfortable rather than empty. He would talk about a deal that frustrated him. I would complain about a supplier who refused to understand seasonality.
We were learning each other's languages.
And in those moments, I allowed myself a quiet hope.
Not for love.
But for something steadier.
A life partnership. Comfort. Familiarity.
I thought, perhaps foolishly, that this could be enough.
By the end of that first year, we had settled into a routine that worked. Not passionately. But peacefully.
We were polite. We were functional. We were—dare I think it—friends.
Then, slowly, the effort thinned.
It began with canceled dinners.
"I'll be late," he texted one evening.
Then another.
Then the apologies disappeared altogether.
He started staying out one night a week. Then two.
At first, he explained. Work dinners. Travel delays. Meetings that ran long.
I didn't question him.
I didn't need to.
The rumors arrived before confirmation ever could.
Whispers at events. Pauses in conversation when I approached. A model's name mentioned too casually to be accidental.
I heard them all.
I said nothing.
Darius didn't hide it particularly well. He simply didn't address it. As if silence were enough to erase implication.
By the beginning of the second year, he seemed to decide—quietly, internally—that he had tried enough.
The dinners stopped completely.
The basketball games became his again.
Our conversations reduced to logistics.
"Are you attending the gala on Thursday?"
"Yes."
"Good."
That was it.
My own life began to shift in response.
I stopped going to the restaurant every day. At first, it was unintentional—missed mornings, shortened visits. Then it became deliberate.
Once a week was enough to oversee operations. The staff didn't need me hovering. The systems were in place.
My time was needed elsewhere.
Maintaining the image of Mrs. Voss became its own full-time role.
Charity luncheons. Fashion shows. Fundraisers. Dinners where my smile mattered more than my presence.
I learned how to dress for optics. How to speak without saying anything. How to be warm without inviting intimacy.
People liked me.
They praised my composure. My elegance. My discretion.
"You're so supportive," someone once said. "Darius is lucky."
I smiled.
Inside, something settled into place.
Not bitterness. Not anger.
Acceptance.
I had entered this marriage knowing it was not built on love. I had chosen preservation over desire.
But somewhere in that first year—watching Darius try, watching myself hope—I had almost forgotten that.
By the second year, reality reasserted itself.
He was bored.
Not with me specifically. With the structure. With the performance. With the restraint.
And boredom, I learned, was not something Darius tolerated for long.
He sought stimulation elsewhere.
I allowed him his silence.
I remained loyal.
Not because I was blind.
But because I understood the terms.
This marriage had never been about exclusivity.
It had been about function.
And for that first year, it had almost felt like more.
Almost.