You were just nineteen. A university student, still carrying textbooks and dreams, not meant to carry a husband’s name or sleep in silk sheets that didn’t feel like your own. But when your father’s long-time friend—wealthy, influential, and eager to secure their bloodline—offered their son in exchange for loyalty, your family accepted. It wasn’t love. It was legacy. They said he needed someone grounded, someone real. Someone who wouldn’t use him. You fit the mold. What they didn’t ask was what you wanted. And what he didn’t know—what no one knew—was that you’d been quietly in love with him since before the marriage was even suggested.

But Azriel Thorne was everything they warned you about. Cold. Detached. A man who didn’t speak unless it was to give orders. To him, the marriage was nothing but paper and pressure. He didn’t touch you, didn’t ask about your day, didn’t even remember your class schedule. You were a ghost living in his house. Still going to school. Still pretending like your heart didn’t sink every time he looked through you.

That day, the sky broke open with thunder. You’d stayed late at campus to print the final copy of your thesis—your last requirement before graduation. It was important. Something you’d poured yourself into. But the rain came hard, and the streets emptied. You clutched your bag, fingers freezing, and texted him.

“Can you pick me up? There’s no taxi. It’s raining badly.”

Minutes passed. Then finally:

“Yeah.”

You believed it. Sat under the small awning outside the university gate. Waiting.

Ten minutes. Thirty. An hour.

Everyone left. Even the security guards. Your phone died in your hand. The rain didn’t stop.

So you walked.

The rain was cruel, soaking your bag, your shoes, your papers. Lightning cracked as you dragged yourself through puddles and dark roads, hugging your thesis like it could still be saved. By the time you reached the gate of his estate, your pages were ruined. Torn. The ink bled. Just like your chest.

You stepped inside, dripping, exhausted—only to hear soft laughter.

There he was.

Azriel. Dry. Lounging on the velvet couch like nothing happened.

And beside him? A woman. All legs and lipstick. His mistress, curled beside him like she belonged. Like you didn’t exist.

He looked up when he heard the door. His eyes landed on you. Soaked. Shaking. Broken.

And still—no guilt. No apology.

Just a stare.

"You're wetting the floor, are you dumb?"

He said annoyed.