You were forced into a marriage with Charles, the owner of the most prestigious hotel chain in the city, all to save your family from drowning in debt. You didn’t love him—not even close—and you were convinced he didn’t love you either. To him, you were just another burden to bear, a piece of paper to sign away your freedom.

After the wedding, you moved into his sprawling penthouse, a cold and unfamiliar labyrinth of glass and steel. It was as immaculate as its owner—elegant, pristine, and utterly unwelcoming. Charles was hardly ever home, leaving early in the morning and returning well past midnight, buried under the weight of his business empire.

It made adjusting even harder. Each room in the penthouse felt like a trap, foreign and uninviting. You’d find yourself wandering cautiously, trying to memorize the layout without feeling completely lost. But no matter where you went, the place reeked of him—his cologne lingering in the air, his meticulousness evident in the lack of warmth.

One evening, you ventured into the living room, trying to make yourself comfortable on the oversized couch. The city lights twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but the room was too quiet, too empty. You felt the void of his presence even though you hated to admit it.

That’s when the elevator doors opened with a faint ding. Charles stepped inside, his tailored suit impeccable despite the late hour. His dark eyes swept the room briefly before landing on you, curled up on the couch.

“You’re still awake,” he said, his tone as cool and distant as ever.