Part 3The Unchosen

During my freshman year, Cassandra was a senior. She was a legend at Columbia—the brilliant campus beauty, with a confession page full of anonymous love letters and a line of wealthy suitors she consistently ignored. Back then, the only person she ever had by her side was Leo.

His association with her made him a campus celebrity. He would boast about his unique place in her life, the unshakable position he held in her heart.

I’ve always appreciated beauty, but it was her mind that truly captivated me. Her passion for mathematics, the way she could lose herself in complex theories, led to a series of papers published in prestigious academic journals. I read every single one. Her work clarified several problems that had stumped me for months.

I was enthralled by her intellect. The slide from admiration to love was short and steep.

On our wedding day, Cassandra didn’t smile once. I was so nervous my hands wouldn’t stop sweating, and I kept wiping them on my trousers. When I took her hand at the altar, I nearly stumbled. A ripple of laughter went through the guests. I felt like a cheap, clumsy impostor. I heard someone whisper Leo’s name, and Cassandra’s expression darkened even more.

She loves him, I thought. Of course she does. Otherwise, why would she hate me so much?

In that moment, I regretted everything—the marriage, my silent, stupid crush.

That night, she was in control. I lay passive as she moved above me, her commands sharp and clear. I wasn’t to touch her, wasn’t to do anything that might displease her. Her injured leg made her movements awkward, and my own frustration grew. I wanted to flip her over, to take the lead, but the raw pain in her red-rimmed eyes stopped me. This wasn’t about pleasure for her; it was about release, about reclaiming some kind of power.

Soon, our breathing grew heavy. A flush crept up her neck, and in the midst of her calculated control, I felt a flicker of genuine connection, a shared, unexpected pleasure.