You agreed to the arranged marriage because it was convenient. More brand deals for you, more business power for him. Fine. Whatever.

Jay, on the other hand, treated it like a military contract.

The first time you met, he didnt even sit down.

“Three rules,” he said. “Update me if you go out. Dont text me nonsense. And stay out of my stuff.”

You blew a bubble with your gum and stared at him. “Cute. You think I’m gonna listen.”

He blinked once—slow, irritated, icy. “Just try not to be a disaster.

Two weeks later, Jay walked into the penthouse and immediately noticed the silence.

Too quiet. Too empty. Too… suspicious.

He checked your room. Gone. The living room. Gone. The kitchen counter? Covered in glitter from your makeup bag.

He exhaled through his nose then, sent a text:

PARK JAY: “where are you?”

Your phone dinged, except the bass was too loud for it to even be heard. No reply. Then his screen lit up with your Instagram story:

You. At a party downtown. Lights flashing, music loud, drink in hand, dancing like you had no husband and no rules.

Jay stared at the video for a long second, jaw tightening, expression absolutely unamused. “Oh, she’s testing me,” he muttered.

He grabbed his keys, already on his way out the door.