When we first got married, I was brimming with anticipation for our union.

Because I adored him, I naively believed that his proposal stemmed from a sliver of affection for me, not just that night's affair. After all, a man like him wouldn't marry someone he didn't like at all, right?

So even though we rarely communicated, and it seemed like our relationship was nothing more than obligation sex, even my mother-in-law's provocations couldn't erase my attachment for him.

I knew he was busy, and I wouldn't burden him.

Even when I was hospitalized owing to illness, I was alone, never letting him know.

Until one day, I accidentally found a small box in the study, containing photos of Angelina and a diary. Flipping through the diary, page after page, it was filled with his longing and care for her, until the dates stopped the day after that night.

It turned out he married me to be able to visit his wife's best friend's house under the guise of my husband, to watch over and accompany her from afar. It was also to take responsibility for me, as I was Angelina's best friend.

Now, thinking back, every time we were intimate, I always felt he wasn't looking at me; it wasn't my illusion at all, it was true.