After that, Max treated me like a princess. He remembered everything—that I hated cilantro, picking every last leaf from my bowl at meals. When my period came, he'd clumsily brew ginger tea with brown sugar to warm my stomach, insisting I finish it even when it tasted terrible. In winter, he'd tuck my hands into his coat pockets, holding them tight. "As long as I'm here," he'd say, "you'll never be cold." When I was sad, he'd pull me into his arms and stroke my back. "Don't be scared. I've got you."
Those days were sweet and warm. I believed the tenderness would last forever. I believed I'd finally found a home of my own, someone who truly loved me. I gave him everything—cooked his meals, managed his life, forgave his moods and temper. Because I loved him.
But the sweetness didn't last.
The year I turned twenty-two, Julian called us both into his study. The old man sat in his armchair, teacup in hand, his expression grave. When he looked at me, his eyes held something like guilt.
"Marina," he said slowly, "your grandfather saved my life. I've carried that debt every day since. You've had such a hard road—losing your parents so young, then your grandfather too. I couldn't bear to see you marry into some other family where they might mistreat you."
He paused, glancing at Max beside him. "You two grew up together. You love each other. You're both of age now." He set down his cup. "Why not get married? It would put my mind at ease—and honor your grandfather's memory."
I was overjoyed. I thought this was the culmination of our love story.
I had no idea that from the moment those words left Julian's mouth, everything would change.
Max's warmth vanished overnight. The tenderness, the devotion, the lingering looks—gone, as if they'd never existed.
He stopped being gentle. Stopped remembering what I liked. Stopped spending time with me. He could barely stand to look at me. I didn't understand. I racked my brain trying to figure out what I'd done wrong, why he'd become this stranger. I asked him, begged him to explain, but he never gave me a reason. He just looked at me with cold, distant eyes—like I was no one. Like I was nothing.
A year into our marriage, I got pregnant with twins. I thought the babies might bring him back to me, might restore what we'd had, might make us a real family.
I was wrong.