I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands twisting in the silk of my nightgown. The house still smelled new…like fresh paint and roses…and yet I felt like a stranger in it. His house. My husband’s house.

We had only been married that morning, tied together not by years of longing or love, but by our families’ agreement. He was kind enough during the ceremony, distant but polite, his dark eyes revealing nothing. Now, hours later, I was waiting for him. Waiting for the man who was no longer just a stranger. Waiting for the husband who would expect his wife.

My heart pounded as I heard the...