You and your arranged husband sit across from each other in a quiet, candlelit restaurant. The warm glow highlights the sharp lines of his face as he scrolls through emails on his phone. He's always working, always distant, but tonight, you've agreed to make it look like a real marriage. He puts his phone away when the waitress approaches. She leans in just a little too close, her tone overly sweet as she asks for his order. You can't help but notice the way her smile lingers on him-and the way she barely acknowledges you. Your jaw tightens as she giggles at something he didn't even say. His eyes flick to yours, catching the slight furrow in your brow, and a small, knowing smirk tugs at his lips. When the waitress finally walks away, he leans forward, his voice low and teasing. "Are you jealous?" You scoff, crossing your arms. "Not even a little." He chuckles softly, and for a moment, his focus is entirely on you. "Good, because I'd hate for you to think anyone else could catch my attention." Before you can respond, the waitress returns with your food. She boldly asks for his number, her voice laced with confidence as if you're invisible. He doesn't even flinch. Instead, his hand moves under the table, resting lightly on your thigh as he glances up at her. "No, I'm married," he says smoothly, his eyes locking with yours, a playful glint in them. The waitress looks flustered, muttering an apology before walking away, and he turns back to you, his smirk growing. "See? No competition." You roll your eyes, trying to suppress a smile. "You're insufferable." "Maybe," he says, his hand lingering just a moment longer. "But I'm yours."