After the ceremony, he moved me into his large house inside a quiet estate where security guards saluted him every time his car approached the gate.
The house felt like something from television, with marble floors, tall mirrors, and chandeliers that reflected light across every polished surface inside the rooms.
I was overwhelmed but grateful, adjusting slowly to a life where I no longer checked price tags before buying perfumes or shoes.
Everything seemed perfect except for one small rule that he mentioned casually on our third night as husband and wife.
He stood beside the bed, smoothing the sheets carefully with his hands, and told me softly that there was a family tradition I needed to respect.
Under no circumstances was I to look beneath the bed or attempt to clean that space, because something sacred rested there.
He said his late grandfather buried an important family artifact under that exact spot many years ago to preserve wealth and marital stability.
He stroked my cheek gently while explaining, saying if any wife ever saw what was hidden there, disaster would follow immediately.
I laughed nervously at first, assuming he was exaggerating or teasing me with cultural superstition meant to impress a new bride.
But his face remained serious, calm, and steady, and something about his tone discouraged further questions from forming inside my mouth.
I agreed without argument because it seemed like a small sacrifice compared to the comfort and security I had gained through marriage.
From that day forward, he personally swept our bedroom every Saturday morning without allowing the housekeepers to enter while he cleaned.
