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Nine days later, wearing a wedding dress Arthur paid for, Matilda walked down the aisle as though walking to her own burial. Her first kiss occured at the altar, in front of strangers. That night, she entered Arthur’s home with shaking hands.
And behind the closed bedroom door, Arthur spoke first.
“Matilda,” he started quietly, “before anything happens, there’s something you need to know.”
She sat stiffly on the bed. The room felt too still.
“I know this marriage wasn’t your choice,” he said. “But I want you to know—I didn’t bring you here to harm you.” He swallowed hard. “I was born… different.”
He explained, haltingly, painfully, that his body couldn’t perform as a husband traditionally would. He wouldn’t be able to be intimate. He couldn’t father children.
He waited for disgust, for anger, for rejection.
Instead, Matilda felt something unexpected. She recognized what it meant to be trapped in silence. To live unseen. To be alone inside oneself.
Arthur stepped back, voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re free, Matilda. I won’t touch you unless you want me to. You may have your own room. All I ask for is companionship. Someone to sit with at dinner. Someone to walk beside. I just… can’t bear the loneliness anymore.”
For the first time, she looked him in the eyes and saw not a stranger—but a wounded heart, just like hers.
They slept in separate rooms that night.
In the days that followed, Matilda found the library – walls full of books. When Arthur found her reading, he simply said, “Everything in this house belongs to you. Nothing is forbidden.”
It was the first time in her life someone had given her permission to exist.
Weeks passed. She learned how the farm operated, how the books were kept, how decisions were made. She absorbed everything with a mind that had simply never been allowed to grow before.
One evening on the porch, Arthur asked gently,
“Matilda… are you unhappy here?”
She answered slowly, honestly,
“No. For the first time… I can breathe.”
Soon after, Arthur fell gravely ill. Matilda stayed by his side, tending to him around the clock. When he finally woke and saw her asleep beside his bed, he whispered,
“You stayed.”
“I am your wife,” she replied simply.
Something changed after that. Not passion. But trust.
A steady, quiet devotion.
Years passed. Their home was warm but missing the laughter of children.
One day, Matilda asked, “Arthur… what if we adopted?”
Hope flickered in his eyes. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” she said. “Family can be chosen.”
They adopted a small, frightened girl named Ella. Later, two more children—Liam and Mia. The once-silent house filled with voices, footsteps, shared meals, and a love that didn’t need to look like anyone else’s.
People in town gossiped. Whispered. Judged. But their words never crossed the threshold of the Shaw home.
Matilda had once been sold. But in the end—she had won.
She gained a home.
A partner.
Children.
A life she chose—and protected.
“Love comes in different shapes,” Matilda would tell her children.
“Ours was simply a different kind. And that made it ours.”
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