Married for his money

The space between us

There were two toothbrushes in the bathroom now, one blue and the other, pink.

I did not put them there neither did he. They just showed up, like the universe was mocking us with the illusion of something normal.

I stared at them for a full minute, then brushed my teeth with my finger.

---

Jaxen left early the next morning.

No knock, no note. Just the low click of the front door and silence.

I ate toast alone in the kitchen. Burnt it twice. Almost cried once. Not because I was sad—because I realized I missed noise. Missed the chaos of life before everything turned cold and polished.

I turned on the TV and muted it just to hear something.

---

Around noon, his assistant showed up. I don’t remember her name. Just her voice, sharp and efficient.

"Mr. Cross left instructions. You’ll be attending the Morrison Gala next Friday. Here’s the prep schedule. Wardrobe fitting is tomorrow. Press interview the day after."

She handed me an envelope. Thick. Heavy.

"He also asked me to give you this."

I opened it. A check.

Twenty thousand. My name on it. The ink still fresh.

"First payment," she said.

I didn’t cry.

But my hands shook a little when I folded it.

---

That night, I cooked dinner. Not because I had to. Because I didn’t know what else to do with the silence.

I burned the chicken.

Threw away the rice.

Ended up eating crackers and peanut butter at the counter, staring at my reflection in the microwave.

I don’t know how long I sat there. But it was long enough for the lights to start feeling too bright. Long enough for me to forget I wasn’t actually alone.

---

He came back around nine.

I heard the door.

Didn’t move.

He walked into the kitchen, loosened his tie, and paused when he saw me.

"You ate."

"I tried."

A pause.

Then he opened the fridge, took out a bottled water, leaned against the counter like we were two coworkers stuck on a night shift.

"You okay?"

I looked at him.

"Why are you asking?"

"Because you're not talking."

"You don’t strike me as someone who minds silence."

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at me a second longer, then nodded and left the kitchen.

---

The next day, the stylist returned.

Different dress. Brighter. Tighter. She spun me around like I was a mannequin. I said nothing. Just stared at the floor and let her zip me up.

"You're a lucky girl," she said while fixing my hair.

"You don’t know me."

"You don’t need to know a person to know their luck."

I didn't answer. Because if I spoke, I might've said something honest.

---

That evening, we sat across from each other in the living room. He was working. I was pretending to read.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Like something wanted to be said but neither of us wanted to be the one to say it.

"Do you have friends?" I asked, finally.

He looked up. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"I have colleagues. Business partners. Acquaintances."

"So no."

He shrugged. "I don’t need friends."

"That doesn’t mean you don’t want them."

He didn’t answer. Just looked back at his screen.

I closed the book.

---

That night, I dreamed about my old apartment.

The cracks in the ceiling.

The sound of cars outside.

The cheap mattress on the floor.

I woke up missing it.

Not the place. The feeling. The version of me who still thought she had time to fix things.

---

On Friday, the apartment filled with noise.

Makeup artists. Photographers. Publicists.

I stood in front of the mirror while they painted me into someone people would believe belonged next to him.

He came in last, buttoning his shirt, eyes scanning the room like he couldn’t wait for it to empty.

Then he saw me.

And stopped.

"Is it too much?" I asked.

"No," he said, voice flat. "It's exactly what they expect."

But something in his expression shifted.

Not much. Just enough.

---

We walked the carpet together.

Lights. Voices. Hands reaching.

"Smile," he whispered.

I did.

"Take his arm."

I did that too.

Every step felt like performance. Every blink rehearsed. Every smile a small lie wrapped in lip gloss.

But no one saw it.

They saw him.

They saw me.

They saw the space between us and believed it was love.

---

Later, in the car, I rested my head against the window.

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Make it look like you feel something."

He did not answer for a long time.

Then:

"You get used to hiding the parts people don’t want to see."

I looked at him.

"What if there are no parts left?"

He glanced my way.

"Then maybe you start over."

I did not speak again.

Because for once, silence said enough.