Learning to Be Her Husband

Thomas had never imagined himself here: an arranged marriage, his signature scrawled on a contract as if he were sealing a business deal instead of pledging his life to another. There was no cathedral draped in white, no organ’s hymn, no throng of smiling guests. Instead, he and his bride sat across from each other in a private dining room at the back of a restaurant, a solitary judge presiding over the ceremony. Only the four parents bore witness, all beaming approval as pens scratched across legal parchment.

Why did I even agree to this? Thomas’s mind raced. His parents’ incessant chatter about grandchildren? Their gentle—no, insistent—nudges to settle down? Or just the sheer convenience of it all. Yes, that was it: convenience. A wife to repel would-be suitors, a shield against his mother’s daily entreaties—“Thomas, when will you bring home a nice girl?”—and the comfort of having a family, just like his married friends. He was turning thirty-one; time was marching on. It was sensible, he told himself. Practical. And his mother was adamant that Ms. Cassandra Williams—a woman of impeccable pedigree—would make the perfect spouse.

So here he sat, signing the marriage license. He might not be in love, but he could at least be a devoted husband. That was the least he owed her.

His bride remained silent throughout the procedure. Her voice emerged only in response to questions, polite and measured. Seated beside him, she was the image of composed elegance: a living statue in a tailored navy dress, dark hair pinned perfectly at her nape, her hands folded demurely in her lap. Thomas couldn’t tell whether she approved of this arrangement. Surely, in modern society, an arranged marriage was antiquated—she ought to protest, if only to preserve her own autonomy. But perhaps her parents’ strict oversight had silenced her.

When the judge rose and slid the pen aside, Thomas finally looked toward Cassandra’s mother. Clearing his throat, he ventured, “Is this really okay? If you’d rather, we could have a grand wedding—”

A brittle smile flickered on the older woman’s lips. “It’s quite all right, son. Cassandra doesn’t wish for anything extravagant. After all, it was already generous of you to accept her.”

Generous? Thomas blinked. Her words carried an odd tension, a hint of resentment beneath the polished courtesy. He glanced at Cassandra for confirmation, but his new wife stared straight ahead, impassive. Across the table, her parents shifted in their seats as though eager to be elsewhere.

“We must go,” Cassandra’s mother announced abruptly. “Thank you for your hospitality. We apologize for departing so soon, but a business meeting awaits.” She turned upon her daughter, voice sharpening. “Don’t disappoint us—or your husband. Be a good wife.” Her imperious tone left no room for dissent.

Cassandra inclined her head in silent assent, while her parents rose and swept from the room as though driven by urgent matters, leaving their daughter in Thomas’s hands. A stranger. His breath caught, and he felt a sudden, awkward stillness.

He turned to Cassandra. “Are you… all right?” he asked quietly, aware now of how little they knew of one another. His friends always claimed: a happy wife meant a happy life. Thomas wanted to get this right.

Cassandra nodded once. The courtship resumed in unspoken silence until Thomas’s own parents, determined to banish the tension, attempted conversation. They asked Cassandra about her childhood, her schooling, and her favorite novels. She offered polite answers, but no warmth. Eventually, Thomas’s parents relented, leaving the couple to fend for themselves.

With all observers gone, the quiet deepened. Thomas shifted in his chair, his gaze tracing the contours of the tablecloth as though seeking inspiration. Finally, he cleared his throat, braced himself, and offered a smile, only to see Cassandra slide her chair away—she had moved to the opposite side of the table. His heart sank. Did he smell of cologne too strongly? Were his manners offensive?

Gathering his composure, Thomas straightened and spoke at last. “I’m Thomas Campbell,” he said, voice steady. “Thirty-one years old, owner of a restaurant. And you are—?”

Her dark eyes met his. “Cassandra Williams. I’m twenty-eight and an assistant marketing manager at my parents’ company.” She paused, then added, “You may call me whatever you like.”

He frowned, curiosity piqued. “Assistant marketing manager? Your family owns the business—why not a loftier title?”

A flash of irritation crossed her face, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “You’ll have to ask my parents,” she replied coolly.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. He took a measured breath. “Very well. As for how I should address you… How about ‘Honey’?” He offered a tentative grin.

She shrugged, expression neutral. “If that suits you.”

“Honey, it is,” he declared, and for a moment—just a flicker—she returned his smile. But even as he admired her, he reminded himself she was surely hiding something. A woman who could agree to an arrangement so alien to modern sensibilities must have her own agenda.

He watched her draw in a deliberate breath, her gaze steady. “Since we’re now husband and wife,” she said, “shall we be honest with each other?”

Thomas’s surprise was genuine. “Of course. I’ve always believed honesty is the foundation of any good marriage.”

She nodded, steeling herself. “I have my reasons for agreeing to this marriage.”

He lifted his wine glass in a light gesture. “I understand. I have mine as well.” He took a sip, hoping to smooth the moment. “My reasons aren’t secret—my parents know them all.”

Cassandra’s tension softened. “That’s admirable,” she said gently. “It takes courage to be so forthright.”

Thomas blinked, caught off guard by her praise. “Thank you,” he murmured.

A genuine smile curved her lips. Relief glimmered in her eyes as she continued: “I promise I won’t be a problem. I will be your good wife in public, and I won’t stand in the way of your happiness with the one you truly love.”

He set his glass down, his brows knitting. “What do you mean?”

Her smile widened, oblivious to his confusion. “I’m just grateful your heart lies elsewhere. Now we can both be ourselves.” She placed her hands together, chin lifted in a silent benediction. “I want to be honest with you because I know… You bat for the other team.”

The room seemed to tilt. Thomas’s glass slipped from his grasp, shattering on the hardwood floor. Silence roared in his ears. His new wife sat before him, eyes serene, while fragments of ruby wine seeped into the grain beneath them.

All at once, the old adage rang in his mind: a happy wife, a happy life. But now, as he stared at Cassandra, her words hung between them like shards of broken glass. Should he still try to make her happy? Or would that only deepen the lie he had been living?

Jesus Christ… When did I start batting for the other team?