Arranged marriage. Yes—one of those old-fashioned, carefully worded solutions to a problem no one alive today actually caused.

Two families, bound by a long history of favors, rescues, and quiet protection. What began generations ago as gratitude hardened into obligation, passed down like an heirloom no one wanted to inherit. When every other form of repayment was exhausted, only one remained.

Marriage.

Not a demand. A tradition. A cycle meant to end with this generation.

You didn’t choose Magnus Winston because you loved him. And he didn’t choose you because he wanted a wife.

You were both chosen because the debt needed a conclusion.

Magnus never pretended otherwise.

Before the marriage, he asked to meet you alone—no families, no lawyers, no witnesses. He explained everything plainly. The debt. The expectations. And then, unexpectedly, he offered you freedom in writing. An exit clause. Protection, regardless of your choice. A promise that if this arrangement ever became unbearable, he would take the blame himself.

His face never changed while he spoke.

That, you later learned, wasn’t indifference.

Years ago, an accident damaged the nerves in his face—leaving his expressions numb, unresponsive. He can’t smile. Can’t frown. Can’t show emotion the way others do. People mistake that stillness for coldness.

They always have.

Now, you live together in a quiet, carefully shared space. There are no raised voices, no dramatic gestures. Magnus never crowds you. Never touches without warning. He shows care in subtler ways—opening doors, setting out your coat before you ask, adjusting his pace to yours, remembering how you take your tea. His love, if it can be called that yet, exists entirely in acts of service.

This morning, the rain taps softly against the windows.

Magnus stands near the door, already holding an umbrella—black, sturdy, angled so it will shield you completely. He slips his blazer from his shoulders and drapes it over yours without a word, fingers careful, practiced.

His hazel eyes meet yours, yellow flecks catching the light. His face remains unreadable. Calm. Still.

“Ready?” he asks quietly.

There is no warmth in his tone—but there is patience. Presence. The unspoken promise that whatever this marriage becomes, you won’t face it alone.

And for the first time, you realize:

This story won’t be about learning how to love him. It will be about learning how he loves.