Chapter 2: We Pretended It Was Just Practice
The first rule of our marriage was simple: pretend.
Pretend the ring didn't feel heavier some days than others. Pretend the looks we got in public didn't sink under my skin. Pretend that sharing a last name at seventeen wasn't terrifying.
Lucien was very good at pretending.
On Monday morning, he stood in the kitchen wearing a crisp white shirt, reading the news like he had been doing this for decades instead of barely three weeks. I stood barefoot by the counter, fighting with the toaster like it had personally offended me.
"It's burning again," I complained.
"You set it to six," he said without looking up.
"Six is a suggestion."
"That's not how numbers work."
I glared at him. "You're not how husbands work either, but here we are."
That got his attention. He looked up, eyebrow lifting slightly, and for a moment I thought he might smile. Instead, he calmly reached over, unplugged the toaster, and handed me the burnt bread.
"Practice," he said. "Marriage is compromise."
I stared at the toast. "You just killed breakfast."
"I saved it from getting worse."
I laughed, shaking my head. "You're unbelievable."
"And yet," he replied, grabbing his keys, "you married me."
School felt different now. Not better. Not worse. Just louder.
Whispers followed me down the hallway like shadows. Some girls smiled too sweetly. Some looked at me like I'd committed a crime. Boys suddenly remembered my name.
I hated all of it.
Lucien waited by the car after school, arms crossed, posture relaxed but watchful. He didn't belong there, not among lockers and teenage noise. He looked like someone who had wandered into the wrong chapter of life.
"Why are you here?" I asked as I slid into the passenger seat.
"You said you had a test today," he replied. "I came to pick you up."
I blinked. "You remembered?"
He shrugged. "It's written in my calendar."
That shouldn't have mattered. It was practical. Logical.
It still made my chest feel warm.
At home, we ate dinner together because it was easier than eating alone. The television played quietly in the background while we argued about whose turn it was to do dishes.
"I cooked," I said.
"You reheated leftovers," Lucien corrected.
"I improved them."
"With hot sauce."
"Exactly."
He sighed, but he took the plates to the sink anyway. Watching him roll up his sleeves felt strangely intimate, like seeing a secret.
"You don't have to act," I said suddenly.
He paused. "Act?"
"This whole… husband thing," I gestured vaguely. "I know it's part of the deal, but you don't have to overdo it."
Lucien turned off the tap. "I'm not acting."
The words settled between us, heavy and unclear.
That night, I dreamed we were normal.
Not contract-normal. Not pretend-normal. Just two people sitting on the floor, laughing, sharing secrets that didn't feel dangerous. When I woke up, the emptiness hit harder than I expected.
The next few weeks blurred into routine. Morning sarcasm. Afternoon pickups. Quiet dinners. Late-night silences. We learned each other without meaning to.
Lucien hated loud music but listened to it anyway when I was around. I hated bitter coffee but drank it because it reminded me of him. Sometimes we forgot the rules. Sometimes we remembered too sharply.
The first fight happened on a Thursday.
I came home late, laughing on the phone with a friend, and found Lucien waiting in the living room, lights off, phone in hand.
"You didn't answer," he said.
"I was busy."
"With who?"
I frowned. "Why does it matter?"
His jaw clenched. "Because we agreed to transparency."
"We agreed to a contract," I snapped. "Not surveillance."
Silence stretched.
"You're married," he said quietly.
"So are you," I shot back. "Does that mean I get to question you every time you disappear into work?"
He looked away, tension radiating off him. "This isn't about control."
"Then what is it about?" I demanded.
Lucien didn't answer.
I stormed off to my room, heart pounding, anger and something softer twisting together. I hated that his concern had felt almost real. I hated more that part of me wanted it to be.
The fight ended without resolution, like most things between us. The next morning, there was coffee waiting for me on the counter, exactly how I liked it.
An apology without words.
At school, things got worse. A girl I barely knew cornered me in the bathroom.
"So," she said, smirking. "How much is he paying you?"
I laughed in her face. "More than your opinion's worth."
My hands shook afterward.
That evening, Lucien noticed.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Arielle."
I sighed, collapsing onto the couch. "People think I sold myself."
His expression darkened. "You didn't."
"They don't know that."
He sat beside me, closer than usual. "You don't owe anyone an explanation."
I looked at him, really looked at him. "Do you believe that?"
"Yes," he said immediately.
The certainty in his voice almost broke me.
Weeks turned into months. Our pretending grew complicated. We laughed too easily. We argued like it mattered. Sometimes, when I caught him watching me, I felt seen in a way that scared me.
One rainy evening, the power went out.
The house felt smaller in the dark. We sat on the floor with candles, talking about nothing and everything. I told him about my mom. He told me about growing up alone in quiet rooms.
"I didn't think marriage would feel like this," I admitted.
"How did you think it would feel?" he asked.
"Lonely," I said honestly.
Lucien was quiet for a long time. "Me too."
Our shoulders brushed. Neither of us moved away.
Later, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling, heart racing. This wasn't part of the contract. This closeness. This warmth.
I whispered into the darkness, "We should be careful."
From down the hall, Lucien replied softly, "I know."
But knowing didn't stop anything.
Because the truth was, somewhere between practice and pretending, between rules and routines, we were forgetting the most important thing.
This marriage was never supposed to feel real.