I agreed to marry a rich elderly man to rescue my family—but on our wedding night, he never laid a hand on me.

My name is Nora Hale.

That night, I sat curled on the edge of the bed in a wedding dress that felt like armor, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. I stared at the door like it was a sentence waiting to be carried out. When it opened, he stepped in slowly, eyes tired and distant—and the chair in his hand made my blood run cold. He dragged it close, sat, and watched me without blinking.

I stammered, “Then… where will you sleep?”

He answered at once, no hesitation:

“I won’t. I just want to watch you sleep.”

I didn’t understand what that meant. Was he sick? Was he dangerous? Was this some kind of control? But I was exhausted, and in the morning I still had to look “normal” in front of my father. I lay down without even taking off my dress.

When I woke up, he was gone.

The second night, the third night—everything repeated. The chair. The silence. The stare. The household moved like it had made a pact: heads down, mouths shut, no explanations.

By the fourth night, something happened that turned me to stone.

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