Never Underestimate The Good Husband

One Condition

I spent the next two days doing something I had become painfully good at.

Overthinking.

Chiara’s proposal sat in the back of my mind from the moment I woke up until the moment I fell asleep.

Marry her.

One year.

A business funded.

A clean arrangement.

Simple.

Except nothing about marriage was simple.

I’d just spent six weeks watching my own marriage disintegrate.

How was I supposed to walk into another one?

Even if it was only a contract.

Even if there were no expectations of love.

Even if Chiara had made it perfectly clear that she didn’t need a husband.

She needed a shield.

And I needed a second chance.

It should have been an easy decision.

It wasn’t.

Because there was still Tash.

I hated admitting it.

But there was.

Some part of me still believed that if I could just have one proper conversation with her, maybe we’d find our way back to each other.

Maybe she’d calm down.

Maybe she’d remember everything we’d built.

Maybe she’d realize that losing my business hadn’t changed who I was.

Maybe she’d come home.

It was stupid.

I knew it was stupid.

But hope is a strange thing.

It doesn’t need permission to survive.

So on the second evening, I called her.

Once.

No answer.

I called again.

Still nothing.

I sent a message.

Tash, please. Can we talk? Just once. No arguments. I want to understand you, and I want you to understand me.

Nothing.

I waited.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

Then my phone buzzed.

A video.

From Tasha’s best friend.

I frowned.

Why would she send me a video?

I opened it.

And immediately wished I hadn’t.

Tasha was in it.

Her arms were wrapped around another man.

His hands were around her waist.

They were kissing.

Not a quick kiss.

Not something that could be misunderstood.

They were making out like I didn’t exist.

Like our marriage didn’t exist.

Like every year we’d spent together meant nothing.

My stomach twisted.

I watched the video again.

I shouldn’t have.

But I did.

Then I noticed the caption beneath it.

My patience can only last for so long. Sign that damn thing.

I stared at the screen.

For several seconds, I didn’t feel anything.

Then something inside me snapped.

Not heartbreak.

Not jealousy.

Something colder.

Disappointment.

I had spent weeks convincing myself that Tasha was angry because she was hurt.

That she was frustrated because our lives had changed.

That beneath all the insults and the contempt, there was still some part of her fighting for us.

Apparently, there wasn’t.

She’d already moved on.

And somehow, I was the idiot still begging for permission to stay.

I opened the divorce document on my laptop.

My hands didn’t shake this time.

I signed.

No hesitation.

No second thoughts.

I saved the document and sent it where it needed to go.

Then I stared at my phone.

Chiara.

I had no idea what I was doing.

But I knew exactly who I wanted to call.

I pressed her number.

She answered on the third ring.

“Victor?”

“Are you free tonight?”

There was silence.

“Why?”

“I’ve made my decision.”

Another pause.

“You decided?”

“Yes.”

“Already?”

“Yes.”

She sounded genuinely shocked.

“I thought you needed three days.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“I don’t anymore.”

A quiet breath escaped her.

“Are you saying yes?”

“Yes.”

“To the marriage?”

“Yes.”

She was silent again.

“Victor, are you sure?”

“I am.”

“That was fast.”

“I know.”

She hesitated.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll send you the details.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll pick the restaurant.”

“Fine.”

“Seven?”

“Seven.”

The call ended.

That was it.

No dramatic conversation.

No interrogation.

No attempt to change my mind.

Just seven o’clock.

⸻

I arrived ten minutes early.

The restaurant Chiara chose was the kind of place where the waiters probably knew more about expensive wine than I knew about my own financial situation.

I adjusted my jacket and stepped inside.

She was already there.

Of course she was.

Chiara looked effortlessly elegant in a black dress, her hair pulled back neatly.

She looked up when I approached.

“You came.”

“I said I would.”

“You also said you needed time.”

“I changed my mind.”

She studied my face.

“You look different.”

“Different how?”

“Certain.”

I pulled out the chair opposite her.

“I am.”

She watched me sit.

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

That earned a small smile.

A waiter approached.

We ordered.

And for the first time in weeks, I felt something close to normal.

We talked.

Not about marriage.

Not about divorce.

Not about business.

At least, not immediately.

She told me about growing up with parents who treated every family gathering like a board meeting.

I told her about how terrible I was at cooking.

She laughed.

“You cooked for your wife, didn’t you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“I can make three things.”

“That’s tragic.”

“You haven’t tasted them.”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

I laughed.

It felt strange.

Good strange.

I hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone made me laugh without making me feel like I was being mocked.

Eventually, the conversation shifted.

“So,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “You really want to do this?”

“Yes.”

“You’re aware it’s going to be complicated.”

“I know.”

“My parents will want to meet you.”

“I expected that.”

“They’ll ask questions.”

“I can handle questions.”

“They’ll probably investigate you.”

I smiled.

“They already know about the divorce?”

“They know everything.”

“Great.”

She laughed.

“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”

“I’m trying something new.”

“What?”

“Not panicking.”

She smiled.

“It’s working.”

Our food arrived.

I reached for my wallet when the bill came.

Chiara immediately stopped me.

“Absolutely not.”

“I invited you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I called you.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re paying.”

I handed my card to the waiter anyway.

She stared at me.

“You’re stubborn.”

“So are you.”

“I’m paying for dinner.”

“And I’m paying.”

“Why?”

I looked at her.

“Because I want to.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Fine.”

The waiter took my card.

Chiara shook her head.

“You know this marriage is going to be a nightmare.”

“I thought you liked control.”

“I do.”

“You’re going to hate me.”

“I already find you irritating.”

I smiled.

“Perfect.”

She laughed.

The evening continued.

For a few hours, I forgot about Tasha.

Forgot about the divorce papers.

Forgot about the three jobs.

Forgot about the man I’d been trying so desperately to become again.

I just sat across from Chiara and talked.

And somewhere between dessert and coffee, I realized something.

She wasn’t what I expected.

She was sharp.

Blunt.

Demanding.

But she wasn’t cruel.

She challenged me without making me feel small.

That mattered more than she probably knew.

When the restaurant began emptying, Chiara leaned back.

“So.”

“So?”

“Tell me what made you decide so quickly.”

I looked down at my coffee.

There was no reason to lie.

“I tried to reach Tash.”

Her expression changed.

“And?”

“She made the decision for me.”

I didn’t explain everything.

I didn’t need to.

Chiara understood enough from my expression.

“I’m sorry.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t be.”

“You loved her.”

“I did.”

“And now?”

I looked at her.

“Now I need to move forward.”

She nodded slowly.

“That sounds healthy.”

“It’s about time.”

We sat quietly for a moment.

Then I leaned back.

“I’ve made my decision.”

Chiara raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve said that already.”

“I mean the final decision.”

She waited.

“I’ll marry you.”

For once, Chiara didn’t have a quick response.

Her lips parted slightly.

Then she smiled.

“Okay.”

“But there’s one condition though…”