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The day of John Church’s wedding was one of the happiest days of his life.
Momentarily.
He had stood at the altar with his beautiful bride (Angelica Schuyler, a women no words could describe in his eyes, wonderful and perfect in every way. They had met when John came to discuss business with her father, and John was instantly smitten) and said his vows, eyes alight with joy.
He had said “I do” with as much calmness as he could muster, though anyone could plainly tell he was ecstatic, and looked deep into Angelica’s eyes, grinning widely.
Until he saw the falter before she said it back, the hint of a tear, the emptiness of her eyes.
And all his beliefs that she loved him (she had to, didn't she? She had agreed readily to the marriage), but now he remembered the coldness of her embrace, and how stiffly she regarded him, and his world shattered.
And that night as he whispered “I love you”’s into her ear, kissed the top of her head, her response was a whisper, that chilled him to the bone, utterly devoid of emotion, as her eyes remained empty, hollow and tinged with grief.
And he realized that Angelica, the love of his life, whom his entire being was helplessly devoted to, did not love him.
And his heart broke into a million pieces.
John knew the smart thing would be to emotionally detach himself, to stop worshipping the ground she walked on, to spare him the dull aching in his chest when she shrank away from him in the dead of the night.
But he knew as well that he could never stop loving her, and threw himself with reckless abandon into lavishing her with everything she could ever want or need, into loving her unconditionally, because perhaps, perhaps, she could love him back one day.
And as the years wore on, as they developed a flock of children, moved to London, celebrated anniversaries, there was still nothing.
And John wasn't stupid, he saw how her face would light up upon receiving letters from her brother-in-law, how her eyes would take in his scrawled words with more fondness than she had ever spared for John.
He tried not to mind, to be jealous of this man across the sea who held his wife's heart.
And one day, it all changed.
One day, Angelica let herself be drawn into his arms at night, instead of withdrawing herself, silent and unmoving on the edge of the bed.
One day, she barely reacted as she read the letters from Alexander.
One day, when she said “I love you” John looked in her eyes, and they were no longer empty. There was something there, something he couldn't place, that filled him with joy, unlike his own helpless adoration of her that he could feel glowing through him, this was softer, more subdued.
But it was there. It was there as she watched him come into the room, a smile gracing her face. And it was there when she touched his hand, his face, smiling like he was, if not her whole world, a part of it.
The glances became longer, the kisses more meaningful. And one day John looked in her eyes and saw all the love he held for her mirrored back at him.
And his broken heart healed itself almost instantly.
And he was happy, oh god, he was happy.
And as John lay next to Angelica at night, the two entangled in an embrace, he smiled, knowing that his years had payed off, that his Angelica loved him.
That he was enough for her, that she was satisfied.