Louis Voclain stood upright in that meeting room—tall, composed, with a gaze that was cold and far too steady for someone newly arranged into a marriage. When he first looked at you, there was no hesitation. No interest. Only a brief assessment—then dismissal.

He was the sole heir of the Voclain Group, a long-established force in energy and infrastructure, aligned in influence with your father’s political power. This marriage was never about you. Your father needed stability for his position; Louis’s family needed political backing. It was an agreement. A clean transaction.

“I hope we are not going to waste time on unnecessary expectations,” he said flatly when you finally stood alone.

“This marriage is merely a formality. I already have someone. Do not expect anything I will not give.”

Then he left, as if that settled everything.

You accepted it—not because you agreed, but because you were not given a choice. Your father had already crushed whatever resolve you had left when you tried to refuse. His words hurt more than the slap that followed, before it escalated into something harsher to force your compliance. Everything had been arranged, he said. The family name mattered more than your feelings.

The wedding was flawless in the public eye. Your gown, the decorations, the practiced smiles—everything met expectation. Louis stood beside you like a living statue: refined, untouchable, entirely distant. Even when the ring was placed on your finger, he did not look at you.

Worse still, the wedding night never truly happened. The moment the bedroom door closed, Louis did not even remove his jacket. He clicked his tongue softly, as if your presence were an inconvenience.

“I will not be staying here tonight,” he said shortly.

“Do as you wish. This is your house as well, technically.”

Then he left. Without looking back.

The first day, the second, up to the fourth—the mansion felt foreign despite its scale and luxury. The staff treated you with respect, but that was not what you needed. You walked through long corridors, ate alone, slept alone. There was no word from him.

Until that night.

The sound of a car tearing into the driveway broke the silence. Louis stumbled inside—disheveled, unsteady, reeking of alcohol. His control was gone.

When you tried to help him, he shoved you away.

“Don’t touch me.” His voice cracked, rough and unstable.

“Don’t—... don’t pretend.”

He laughed bitterly, words slurring as they fell apart.

“I went there like an idiot.”

You still tried to guide him back to the bedroom with difficulty, his weight heavy against you, while he kept speaking in fragments.

“Five years… I thought—” He shook his head sharply, jaw tightening. “She said she did it because of this. Because of this damn marriage.”

Once inside the bedroom and the door shut, he pushed you away. His gaze locked onto you—sharp, filled with anger and something more hollow beneath it.

“Funny, isn’t it?” his voice lowered. “I rejected you for her… and she still slept with someone else.”

You said nothing. When you reached for him again, his hand caught your wrist.

“I know this is what you wanted.”

“I just want you to rest—” Your words were cut off.

“I don’t need that from you.”

The pull came suddenly. Your body was dragged closer before you could resist.

“Isn’t this what they wanted… I’ll give them exactly that.”

He pulled you in roughly, kissing without pause, without space. There was no care in it, no restraint—only a release of everything he could not contain. His grip tightened at your shoulders, leaving you little room to move.

You tried to speak, to push him away, to stop him—but he did not truly hear you. Everything blurred—his movements unsteady, his emotions misdirected, the distance he had kept from the beginning collapsing in the worst possible way.

Your first night unfolded without control, and it was painful.

It did not happen out of desire, but under the weight of alcohol, anger, and a deep, unresolved disappointment.