The bus halted at a crossroads in the heart of a quiet Yorkshire town when Edward saw her lips. The girl brushed a dandelion fluff from her sleeve. That delicate motion, as if her lips were kissing the breeze, struck him like sunlight piercing a shadowed room:
“You’ll be my wife,” he blurted to the stranger, bewildered by how her hazel eyes suddenly mirrored his entire life.
She turned slowly, her gaze not frightened but cool, as though appraising a cracked canvas rather than a man:
“You’re insane.”
“I’ll be the best husband. Just say yes.”
She laughed, revealing slightly crooked teeth:
“Why would I? I don’t even know you.”
“Then let’s fix that. Meet me again,” he said with a theatrical bow, leaving no room for refusal. “Edward, an engineer with big plans. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Emily,” she replied, as if in a daze. “An artist. Maybe famous someday, maybe not.”
“Perfect pair—a pragmatist and a dreamer,” he grinned. “We’ll balance each other.”
“No, thanks,” she said flatly. “I’m already complete.”
“That’s why I love you,” Edward felt his pulse quicken. “I’ll see you tomorrow at eight by the fountain in the park. I promise an evening you won’t forget.”
Emily didn’t like him. She had no intention of going. But the next morning, bragging to her friend Lucy, she recounted how a stranger had proposed marriage, pledging eternal devotion.
“And you said no?” Lucy gasped. “Are you mad? When someone falls for you at first sight, you play along! What if he’s loaded? At least let him wine and dine you.”
“He’s expecting me tonight,” Emily shrugged. “Want to come along? See how generous he really is. I’ll die of boredom alone.”
“Absolutely, let’s go!”
One evening turned into many. Edward latched onto them like a shadow, sparing no expense for the two art students. He knew what young women wanted—cinema tickets, cosy cafés, expensive paints, fine brushes. A seasoned engineer in a tech firm, he could afford it.
Emily made no secret of her indifference. She openly admitted she was just passing time until real love—with someone else—came along. In short, she was doing him a favour.
Edward watched her like a patient parent humouring a tantrum, ending every date with the same vow:
“You’ll be my wife.”
She’d laugh. Who’d want a wife who eyed other men? But Edward didn’t waver. He wasn’t courting her; he was laying siege.
He waited after classes, took her to galleries, bought jewellery, memorised her habits. He tracked her suitors and “removed” them (one “accidentally” got roughed up in an alley). He called her mother: “Your daughter deserves better than these boys.”
Emily seethed, shouting she wasn’t his property, that this was the 21st century. To spite him, she dated peers: a penniless classmate she fancied, a snobbish literature student from money, a musician next door whose passion lasted only a week before he chased another.
After each heartbreak, Edward materialised like a spectre:
“Told you they weren’t right.”
Her mother soon sided with him. When Emily rebelled and cut contact, she sighed: “You’re being foolish. Marriage isn’t about passion—it’s security. He adores you. With him, you’ll never want.”
“Jazz tonight,” he’d say, handing her club tickets as she prepped for another date.
“He’s beneath you,” he’d murmur weeks later when that beau vanished.
Emily never asked how he managed it. Part of her was flattered by his fixation—like a gothic novel where the heroine is worth fighting for.
“Marry me,” he said for the hundredth time, offering a sprig of hawthorn blossoms, her favourite. “I’ve bought land—we’ll build a house with your own studio.”
“I don’t love you,” she whispered. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t tried. I’ll make myself lovable.”
Suddenly, exhaustion washed over her—not from him, but from herself. At twenty-six, she suspected the love she sought didn’t exist. Every “maybe” had crumbled like sand. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe surrender was the answer.
“Fine,” she said. His face lit up as if he’d glimpsed heaven’s gate.
He was the perfect husband. Flowers, no complaints, shelves built to her sketches, carrying her proudly at parties. But the bedroom became a duty (“Come here, darling, I’ve missed you”). Children never came.
Emily didn’t live—she endured his love. She flinched at his sudden kisses while chopping vegetables. Friends envied her; she wanted to scream, “Take him!” Their marriage was a stage where she played the happy wife.
They never fought—there was nothing to fight about. Once, she hurled her mother-in-law’s porcelain figurine at the wall. Edward didn’t blink:
“No matter, love. We’ll glue it.”
She realised: he’d never let go. She bought a train ticket, packed a bag. Then Edward brought home the Siamese kitten she’d always wanted:
“You’re so sad… Maybe he’ll help?”
Emily stayed.
Years later, he found the ticket tucked in a book. At dinner, he asked quietly:
“Why are you still here? If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Because…” She groped for words. “Loneliness scares me more.”
Edward smiled, mistaking it for love.
But Emily knew the truth: she’d grown accustomed to his devotion, terrified he was the only one who’d ever love her. Sometimes, comfort is the quietest cage of all.
