bound | reus

EPILOGUE PT. 2: WRITTEN

E P I L O G U E.

Frank Kafka - Letters to Felice
"You belong to me, I have made you mine. I have fought for you within myself, from the beginning, and always anew, and perhaps forever."

—

"Where've you been all night?"

"Where have you been all night? What the fuck do you mean?"

At 40 years old, Marco Reus was facing a predicament: he felt old. "It's almost two in the morning," breathed the German, with slightly pink cheeks. "You've been gone all day."

He watched as Romessa—his wife of four years, now—removed her earrings, placing them on the dresser before flipping her luscious tresses over her shoulder. She was so beautiful that it seemed audacious. He was 40, she was 28. Somehow, that difference felt as vast—technically even more so—as it was when she was 18 and he was 30. It had been a decade since they first met in his mother's living room that fateful summer, but they still remained wholly devoted to one another. "I was at the office all day," spoke Romessa, truthfully. "Daniela is in town, so I went out for drinks with her and Antonela. Is that a crime? It's a Friday night in the middle of July, Marco."

Marco felt his cheeks grow pink as his wife turned to face him, her perfectly groomed eyebrows risen in a rhetorical arch. Her striking looks and youthful exuberance made it obvious that she was over ten years younger than her husband; still in her roaring twenties. That was why the couple received so much criticism. Back when he was her her age, Marco was indeed having the time of his life—partially because he had Scarlett around to look after a then-newborn Lucia. So, he supposed he wasn't used to being the one who felt... more responsible. Too responsible. But Romessa deserves to have fun, doesn't she? Marco sighed. God knows she needs it. "I didn't mean it that way," the German finally mumbled. "I was just worried, that's all. The kids were asking about their mother. Lucia was excited to show you something she learned during ballet, and—"

"She can just show me tomorrow," yawned Romessa, collapsing next to Marco in the bed. "I'm exhausted, Marco. I really don't think it's a big deal. Sorry if I worried you, but I'm home now, aren't I? Let's just go to sleep—we have a big day tomorrow."

Marco rolled his eyes. "But that's not the point," he breathed. They rarely argued—not nearly as much as they did before they were married—but when they did, he couldn't help but feel immensely nervous. "You're a mother, and you're responsible for raising these kids just as much as I am. What am I supposed to do when our daughter is whining about how she wants mommy to read her a story, but you can't because you're out partying—or whatever you're doing to keep yourself entertained these days? We've been over this, haven't we?"

Romessa Bensaïd-Reus was an international sensation. She was unashamed of her intelligence, and displayed it with far more pride than she did any physical characteristic she possessed. As President of a Global 500 company that brought in billions' worth of revenue per year, Romessa was on track to becoming the only person to ever make the Forbes 30 under 30 list every year in which she was eligible. Being the sole founder of the company, she was Athleta's largest shareholder—thus maintaining her status as a brilliant billionaire in her own right. "I don't understand," breathed Romessa, pulling on a translucent slip. She turned to face her vanity mirror, using a wipe to remove her makeup. "Are you saying I'm a bad mother, Marco?"

The Reuses tried to go about their wealth as subtly as possible. They were known philanthropists, having established their own foundation and using it to do remarkable work around the world. But Romessa was only 28 years old—and when you were a 28 year old billionaire, you couldn't help but feel inclined to enjoy your wealth. She'd been doing a lot of that this summer: insisting that the family go to Dubai, dragging Marco to parties with people who seemed young enough to be his step-children. He knew this was the danger of having a relationship like theirs—but why did they have to have this argument for what felt like the millionth time?