Chapter 1: The Arrangement

After six years of secretly loving Caleb Wright, I married him—not for love, but because our families decided it was best.

There’s something so American about family ties dictating the biggest moments in your life. My mom always said, “Love is great, but stability is better,” and in the end, that’s what I got—a marriage not built on passion, but on expectations, handshakes, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing our parents approved.

After we got married, we treated each other with respect. Every week, right on schedule, we used those extra-thin Trojans—like clockwork.

It was almost hilariously clinical, like we were living out some inside joke only we understood. If there was an award for the most punctual couple in suburbia, we’d win hands down.

Caleb once told me, "A marriage without feelings is the most stable."

He dropped that line one chilly night, his voice steady as the hum of our old fridge during a thunderstorm. I wanted to throw something, or maybe just ask him if he really believed that—but all I managed was a laugh that sounded nothing like me. Inside, my heart sank a little further.

So I tucked my overwhelming love for him away, deep inside.

I became a master of small gestures—hiding my longing in every folded shirt and every cup of coffee I poured. I wore my composure like a perfectly tailored jacket, making sure it never slipped.

Until the day Caleb’s "white moonlight"—his first love—came back to the States.

Suddenly, our old high school group chat exploded. Rachel Monroe, with her blinding smile and Ivy League credentials, breezed back into town. It was all anyone could talk about, even more than the homecoming game or who’d spiked the punch at prom. Suddenly, everything I’d been holding together threatened to unravel.

He started staying out late more often and would rather take cold showers than touch me again.

I tried not to notice, but the empty side of the bed grew colder. Most nights I’d lie awake at 2 a.m., listening for the creak of the front door as he came home, his footsteps quiet—maybe so he wouldn’t wake me, or maybe so he wouldn’t have to face me.

When I finally prepared the divorce papers and went to find Caleb,

It took me hours, my hands shaking so badly I could barely type. Every signature felt like a tiny betrayal to my younger self.

I accidentally heard his inner voice.

[I really like my wife, really like my wife, really like my wife, really like my wife...]

I blinked, sure I was imagining things. But the words echoed, stubborn and insistent, bouncing around my head like a song I couldn’t shake.