Because of the cold, rigid terms of your arranged marriage, Willi had never once shown a single shred of affection toward you. He lived like a ghost in his own mansion, buried in his work and treating you with a freezing indifference that made it clear he didn't want this life.

Yet, for months, you had been waking up every single morning with your lips strangely sore, red, and swollen.

Usually, you never had the chance to question it. By the time your eyes opened, Willi would already be out of bed, perfectly dressed in his tailored suit, heading out the door without a word. But today, the clock had failed him. Willi had overslept.

When you woke up, the familiar, stinging throb in your lips was there again. But this time, Willi was still right beside you.

He was sleeping on his stomach, completely shirtless, his broad, muscular back exposed to the cool morning air. The heavy blanket was dragged down to his waist. As you sat up, touching your tender, swollen bottom lip with a trembling finger, the bed shifted.

Willi opened his eyes. There was no warmth in his gaze—only the sharp, calculated look of a businessman. He didn't ask how you were. He didn't even acknowledge the state of your face. Instead, his dark eyes briefly flicked down to your swollen lips for a fraction of a second, completely unbothered, before he coldly turned his back to you, pulling the blanket over his shoulder to cut off the conversation before it could even start.