FORCED MARRIAGE, CEO'S LITTLE WIFE

Sophie. The click of my pen echoes too loudly in the quiet gallery. I stand in front of a painting that probably costs more than I'll make in the next ten years, scribbling notes on my clipboard that no one will actually read. “Don’t smudge the glass.” Mrs. Carlisle, a senior curator, breezes past in her sharp heels, perfume trailing behind her. I yank my hand back, even though I wasn’t anywhere close to touching the frame. “Yes, ma’am.” She doesn’t wait for my answer. She never does. To her, I’m nothing more than a shadow that flies around and organizes things. The wealthy couple across the room glides from canvas to canvas, murmuring to each other like they're in on a secret. They don’t even glance my way. I could drop dead, and it would probably take them an hour to notice. For anyone to notice. The day goes on like this. More affluent patrons arrive to see the art. Some purchase; some don’t. I observe them as they meander around. Their perfumes, worth more than any of my belongings, cling to the air. Mrs. Carlisle attends to most of them. The same routine carries on for hours until night falls. By the time the gallery closes, my smile feels stiff and fake. My flats rub against my heels, my shoulders ache from standing straight all day, and my brain won’t shut off the same chant it has been repeating for weeks: past due, final notice, amount owed. I lock the doors of the gallery and head out. Stepping into the Manhattan night, rain streaks down the sidewalks, blurring neon signs and cab lights into a messy watercolor. I clutch my coat tighter. The wind cuts sharply through the thin fabric, and I silently curse myself for not buying a better coat last winter. But then again, coats don’t keep the lights on. Coats don’t chip away at debt notices. The crosswalk turns red, but I dart across it anyway, igniting the honk of a cab whose driver sticks his head out the window to shout something at me. The city doesn’t pause for anyone, least of all me. By the time I reach the subway station, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t need to check to know what it is—another reminder, another bill. My stomach knots as I finally look: FINAL NOTICE. The words glare up at me, brutal and uncaring. Rent is late. Again. I shove it down into my bag, as if hiding it will make the problem disappear. It doesn’t. It never does, and I should know that by now. On the train, I snag a seat near the back, pressing my clipboard against my lap like a shield. My reflection in the darkened window stares back at me: tired eyes, hair pulled into a bun that’s starting to fray, lipstick smudged from hours of forced smiles. I don’t look twenty-five. I look older. Worn down. The train lurches forward. I let my head fall back against the seat, shutting my eyes and wondering—not for the first time—if this is it. If this is all my life will ever be. The train arrives at my stop, and I get off. When I finally climb the stairs to our apartment, the familiar smell of garlic and onion greets me. Maya’s cooking. Again. The door is unlocked—she always forgets to lock it—and when I push it open, she’s standing over the stove, humming off-key with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Hey, Soph.” She flashes me a smile that is far too bright for someone living in this shoebox with peeling, flickering lights. “Dinner's almost ready. Pasta and… whatever sauce I could make with the stuff in the fridge.” I drop my bag onto the couch and toe off my flats. “As long as it’s edible, I’ll eat it.” She turns, the spoon in her hand like it’s a weapon. “Excuse me. My cooking is more than edible. It’s art. It’s genius. Michelin-star worthy.” I arch my brow. “Last week you burned rice at least three times.” “Creative choice,” she replies without missing a beat. “I was experimenting with texture.” Her grin is contagious. For a moment, the heaviness in my chest lifts. For a moment, I actually let myself laugh. But it doesn’t last. It never really does. As we sit at the tiny kitchen table, our knees bumping into each other, the weight of what I haven’t told her presses down harder. Maya deserves the truth about just how bad things are—about the debt, about Dad. But she’s only twenty-two. She still believes things will get better, that the world isn’t as cruel as I’ve come to know it is. So I smile, twirl the pasta around my fork, and let her chatter about classes, about a girl in her lit seminar who quoted Sylvia Plath like she owned the poet’s soul, about how Maya plans to apply for an internship at a magazine. She talks like the world is still hers for the taking, and I don’t have to shatter that illusion. When she finally goes to bed, I stay up, sitting by the window with the city spread out before me. From here, Manhattan looks beautiful. Magical. Like one of the glossy postcards we used to buy when we were kids. But I know better now. Behind every glowing window is someone like me. Someone struggling. Someone pretending and fighting battles no one else sees. I press my head against the cool glass, my eyes burning with exhaustion. Tomorrow will be the same as today. And the day after that. Unless something changes.