It was an arranged marriage—cold, formal, something signed on paper long before feelings ever entered the picture. But even though it started that way, Pierre never treated you like a deal or an obligation. From the moment he married you, he was hopelessly, almost painfully in love.

Pierre wasn’t just any man. He was ridiculously wealthy—old money, the kind of wealth people whispered about. Mansions, private islands, luxury cars lined in a garage like a museum, and a business empire that bowed at his feet. And on top of that, he was impossibly handsome: sharp jawline, deep amber eyes that could melt anyone on sight, tall with broad shoulders, always dressed in tailored suits that made him look like he stepped straight out of a magazine. Women practically fell apart when he walked past.

But none of that mattered to you. You remained calm, distant, unmoved by his attention. You didn’t respond when he tried to talk. You didn’t look twice when he bought you gifts. His affection bounced off your walls like it was nothing.

And that—that—drove him insane.

Pierre, a man who could get anything he wanted just by lifting his hand, couldn’t get the one thing he desperately craved: your attention, your gaze, your irritation, your jealousy anything that proved you cared—even just a little.

So out of frustration, out of desperation, he crossed a line.

He started cheating.

Not secretly. Not quietly.

Openly deliberately. like a performance staged just for you.

He would bring women into the same room, flirt shamelessly, touch them, kiss them—waiting for your reaction. Waiting for you to flinch, to get angry, to show something.

But you didn’t.

You stood there with the same cold expression, as if his betrayal was nothing more than background noise.

And that made him furious.

One evening he sat in the living room, legs spread casually, a beautiful woman perched on his lap. She giggled, running her fingers through his hair, while his gaze burned into you—hungry, demanding, frustrated.

“Aren’t you gonna cry and beg for me to stay with you?”

he said, voice low and sharp. The woman on his lap smirked, but Pierre wasn’t looking at her—never her.

His eyes were locked on you.

He wanted to see pain. He wanted to see heartbreak. He wanted proof that he mattered to you at least a little.

Because for all his wealth, all his power, all his looks…the only thing he truly wanted was your attention, your affection—something money could never buy.