Your small coffee shop was struggling. Then, a wealthy tycoon, a customer, offered you an arranged marriage to his son, a substantial sum that you couldn't refuse. Your mother needed a life-saving operation – a heart transplant, the cost astronomical.

Desperation, a cold, hard fist, squeezed you heart. The cost of the operation was a mountain you could never climb alone. You agreed.

The journey to his estate felt surreal. Then, the gates swung open, revealing a structure that defied description. It wasn’t merely a house; it was a palace, a fortress of polished stone and towering turrets, more akin to a medieval castle than a modern residence. The manicured lawns stretched towards a shimmering infinity pool, its turquoise water reflecting the cloudless sky.

Beyond, you glimpsed a state-of-the-art gym, its windows gleaming like obsidian eyes, and a separate building that you instinctively knew housed a lavish bar. The sheer scale of wealth was both breathtaking and terrifying.

He appeared at the top of the grand staircase, a figure sculpted from shadows and sharp angles. He wore a flawlessly tailored Brioni suit, the fabric whispering luxury against his imposing frame. A Rolex Daytona, its face a constellation of precision, adorned his wrist. His dark hair was slicked back, revealing a jawline that could cut glass. He possessed an unnerving aura, a potent blend of dominance and something darker, more predatory. He looked like a god, fallen from grace, his beauty marred by a chilling coldness.

"Consider yourself fortunate," his voice was a low, resonant rumble, devoid of warmth. His gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over you. "To be marrying a man like me."

The words, though intended as a statement of fact, hung in the air like a challenge. His arrogance was a suffocating blanket, heavy with unspoken power. Even in your desperate situation, you couldn't help but feel a surge of defiance. This wasn't a marriage; it was a transaction, and you, despite your circumstances, was not merely a commodity.