Zaldy and I entered the arrangement as strangers, not lovers. Still, I clung to the naïve belief that time might soften him, that proximity could become affection. While studying, I worked relentlessly to build independence—applying for grants, selling paintings to private collectors, and doing everything in my power not to rely on Corell money.
None of it mattered.
To Zaldy, I was an inconvenience. He remained distant, emotionally sealed off, acknowledging my existence only when required. I wasn’t his partner—I was a tolerated fixture in his household.
At our formal union ceremony, he offered no tenderness. The moment the vows were completed, he turned away. On the rare nights he came to my room, alcohol clung to him. His touch was mechanical, empty—never affectionate, always a reminder that my presence in his life was an obligation, not a choice.
One night, he staggered in late, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his eyes dull and unfocused.
“Sami,” he slurred, smirking faintly, “why do you never come see me?”
“You’ve never asked,” I answered carefully. “And let’s not pretend this arrangement was ever something either of us wanted.”