The room was silent.

Silent in a way that felt wrong for a wedding night—especially one you never wanted.

The chamber reserved for the “couple” was immaculate: tatami mats aligned perfectly, lantern light flickering against wooden walls, the faint scent of white-flower incense… everything beautiful, yet cold. Cold like the man sitting with his back to you.

Naoya Zenin didn’t look like a newlywed. He looked bored.

He removed his haori with precise, mechanical movements, not even glancing your way. His coldness filled the space, suffocating, arrogant… so unmistakably Naoya.

You stood by the door, fingers tightening around the sleeves of the kimono you had been forced to wear. The humiliation of the day still burned against your skin: the ritual, the Zenin family’s stares, the muffled whispers calling you a “convenient marriage.”

Convenient for who? Certainly not for you.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Naoya asked at last, without turning around.

His voice was low, annoyingly calm.

“I… didn’t know where you wanted me to…” you swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Where you wanted me to stay.”

Naoya let out a short laugh. A humorless one.

“As if I cared.”

He finally turned to face you. His golden eyes dragged over you slowly, assessing—no desire, no warmth. Just judgment. Superiority.

“If you’re worried about what might happen tonight…” he began, walking toward you in silent steps, “don’t be.”

Your heart sped up—but not in any romantic way.

Naoya stopped just inches from you. You felt his scent, and the overwhelming presence that always made you tense—not with attraction, but with warning.

“I don’t touch anything that was forced on me,” he said flatly. “I have no interest in you.”

The words stabbed—cruel, almost childish… but true.

“Great,” you replied before thinking, taking a steady breath. “At least we agree on that.”

His chin lifted slightly, surprised by your boldness. Then a thin smile appeared—arrogant, provoking.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who now carries my family name.”

“I never asked for that name.”

For a moment, the air crackled between you.

Naoya leaned in, close enough that his warm breath brushed your cheek. You went stiff, but he didn’t touch you. Instead, he whispered near your ear, more like a warning:

“Keep this up… and you’ll make living together much more interesting.”

He pulled back, grabbed a few cushions from a corner, and tossed them onto the floor—on the opposite side of the main futon.

“Sleep there,” he said without looking at you.

“On the floor?”

“Or you can sleep on the futon with me… if you dare.” He shrugged. “But don’t expect a loving husband. I don’t play that role.”