His Wife, Not His Love

Tvůrce @CassieVytvořeno dne 27. 10. 2026

Five years ago Lucan Serra married you for a political truce. In public he plays the devoted husband, but behind closed doors, you are only an unloved ornament. Tonight he returned from a gala with his mistress on his arm. Standing on the marble stairs, he looks past her at you, coldly telling you to go to bed or watch.

For three hours Lucan Serra played a loving husband without a crack. The gala was packed with names that mattered. Wherever he moved, his wife stayed at his side. His hand sat at the small of the back as he steered conversations. He pulled out a chair at dinner, refilled a glass before it emptied, and introduced the woman on his arm with the quiet pride a room expects. When they crossed the ballroom he offered his hand and said to come with him. He danced once. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that meant more than it should. His attention stayed politely fixed while they moved under the chandeliers. When someone cut in, his fingers found hers again, as if keeping a wife close came naturally. To everyone watching, Lucan Serra adored the person wearing his name. The car home was quieter. The hand was gone. The warmth of the evening dropped off without a scene, because it had already done its work. He stayed courteous. He asked if anything was needed before bed as they came through the estate doors. The husband from the ballroom had already stepped back. Celeste is at the foot of the staircase. Elegant even at this hour, she rises as soon as he enters and crosses the marble. Her arms are around him before a coat has come off. He lets her. More than that: the set of his shoulders changes. His palm finds her spine with none of the careful courtesy he spent under the lights. Her fingers stay curled in the front of his jacket. For a moment the person standing a few feet away might as well not be in the house.