The Calculating Marriage

A red carpet stretched from the hotel entrance all the way to the center of the stage. The scent of lilies and roses twisted around my nostrils. I wore a pristine white wedding gown, clutching my bouquet, my fingertips tingling with chill. Just as the master of ceremonies finished saying, "The bride and groom may exchange rings now," Simon Lincoln suddenly raised his hand to stop. His face wore the usual gentle smile, yet not a trace of newlywed joy flickered in his eyes. Simon Lincoln withdrew a neatly folded A4 sheet from his suit's inner pocket and held it out to me. His voice was soft but carried clearly across the banquet hall: "Rachel Scott, sign this post-marriage dutch pay agreement first, then we will exchange rings." I was stunned. The music abruptly ceased. The guests' eyes turned sharply onto me, like countless tiny needles pricking me with unease. I unfolded the agreement, its densely packed clauses coming into view. Utility bills, gas bills, and dining expenses to be split fifty-fifty; entertainment costs paid individually; gifts and red envelopes handled separately and independently. "To build a life together, dutch pay is the most sensible choice." Simon's mother suddenly rose and applauded. Simon's father followed her lead, their applause piercing the heavy silence of the hall. I turned to look at my parents. They sat in the front row, their faces pale as if water might drip from them. Mother's lips were pressed into a thin line, her fingers gripping the armrest so tight her knuckles turned white. Relatives whispered behind cupped hands, their murmurs swelling in volume. Some wore expressions of sympathy, while others showed the amused curiosity of spectators. I could feel the complexity and scrutiny woven into those gazes. Simon Lincoln's eyes held a trace of insistence, a hardness that allowed no room for refusal. As though, without my signature, this wedding would instantly be halted. I drew a deep breath, fingertips trembling as I grasped the pen and signed my name. Each stroke felt like it tore my hopes asunder, my heart clenched painfully by an icy hand. The ceremony ended abruptly. During the toasts, my parents said nothing, forcing smiles to placate the guests. I know; their hearts, like mine, have long since grown cold. Our marital home was purchased outright by Simon Lincoln before the wedding, its decor stark and chill. White walls, gray floors, utterly devoid of warmth—just like him. On the first morning after our wedding, just as I finished making breakfast, Simon pulled out his phone and opened the calculator. "Milk eight dollars, bread twelve dollars, eggs four dollars, twenty-four in total; you transfer me twelve." I froze, the chopsticks in my hand nearly slipping to the floor. It seemed this marriage had entered a state of precise calculation right from breakfast. From that day on, every night at eight sharp, I would receive Simon Lincoln's Expense List. The spreadsheet was laid out clearly; even a cup of soy milk or a unit of electricity was meticulously noted. "The property management charged thirty for garbage disposal today; please transfer me fifteen." "Bought two kg of apples this afternoon for sixteen; dutch pay eight." "The utility bill this month is two hundred eighty; split evenly, one hundred forty each." Such messages repeated daily, like an unending war of attrition. It eroded every ounce of my dreams about marriage. Once, I worked overtime until eleven, dragging my weary body home with an empty stomach. Simon Lincoln sat on the sofa watching TV, with a half-eaten takeout meal on the table. He glanced up at me, neither asking if I was tired nor offering me anything to eat. He simply handed me his phone: "I ordered the takeout, thirty-eight dollars. Transfer me nineteen." In that moment, exhaustion and resentment surged within me. I looked at his indifferent profile and suddenly the man before me felt completely unfamiliar. What chilled me even more was the episode of acute gastroenteritis. At three in the morning, I was doubled over in pain, cold sweat soaking my pajamas as I curled up on the bed, moaning. Simon Lincoln was roused by my voice; his face bore no trace of worry, only a flicker of impatience. He dressed slowly, casually opening the calculator app on his phone. "The taxi to the hospital will probably cost fifty, the registration fee thirty, and the blood test plus ultrasound about three hundred. Transfer me two hundred now; we can settle the rest afterward." His voice was as calm as if he were commenting on the weather. Pain robbed me of words; I could only clamp my lips shut. Tears mingled with cold sweat, trickling down my cheeks as a part of my heart quietly shattered. The test results showed acute gastroenteritis. The doctor prescribed medication and advised me to rest and watch my diet. Simon Lincoln carefully checked each item on the payment receipt, then told me half of the amount. The taxi ride home was swallowed in silence. I leaned against the car window, watching the streetlights blur as they rushed past. For the first time, I seriously considered whether this marriage still held any meaning.