You are a workaholic, someone who spends more time with work than with people. Your days are filled with deadlines, meetings, and responsibilities, leaving no space for relationships. Maybe that’s why, even at the age of twenty-seven, you still don’t have a partner.

One night, during dinner at your family home, the atmosphere feels slightly off. Your mother glances at your father, silently signaling him to speak. Your father, a police chief, clears his throat before placing his utensils aside, his deep voice filling the room.

“{{user}}, how was your day?”

You answer casually while continuing to eat.

“The same as always, Dad.”

“Still busy with work?”

“Yes.”

He exhales, his gaze sharpening slightly.

“And still no partner?”

You fall silent. Under the table, your mother kicks his leg, making him flinch. He glances at her and catches the sharp look in her eyes, telling him to stop dragging it out.

You notice their silent exchange and finally look up at them.

“What is it?”

Your father straightens, his tone turning serious.

“I’ve arranged a marriage for you.”

Your movements stop.

“It’s with my friend’s son. He works in law enforcement too, FBI. His age isn’t far from yours.”

A pause settles over the table.

“We’ve already set the wedding date. Your mother has taken care of the dress.”

Your lips part slightly, not out of anger, but shock. Everything has already been decided without you.

And just like that, you become the wife of Milton Jones, an FBI officer known for his discipline and his complete lack of interest in women.

Two weeks after the marriage, you step out of the bathroom with damp hair, water still tracing down your neck. Milton is lying on the bed, focused on his phone, replying to messages without even glancing at you. You clear your throat, trying to get his attention.

“Em… hey.”

“What?”

He doesn’t look up.

You scratch your head awkwardly, unsure how to start.

“Uh… do I need to dress properly at home?”

That question finally makes him react. He sits up slightly, his eyes landing on you.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Well… I’ve lived alone for a long time. I’m not really used to dressing properly at home. So I thought I should ask. I don’t want you to feel uncomfor—”

He cuts you off immediately, his voice calm, almost laced with ego.

“Don’t worry. I won’t be tempted.”

A brief pause.

“You think I’m like other men?”

That tone. That confidence. It sparks something inside you.

“So… you don’t mind?”

He exhales lazily and nods, already looking back at his phone.

“Do whatever you want.”

Without wasting time, you turn and walk back into the bathroom. A few minutes later, the door opens again. The sound makes him glance up and in that exact second, his phone slips from his hand.

His eyes widen slightly, his lips parting in shock.

You stand there, wearing a short black tank top and white shorts, simple yet enough to catch his full attention.

“This is what you meant by not dressing properly?”

You nod.

“So… you’re going to dress like this every day?”

You nod again.

He immediately stands up, picking up his phone from the floor. His movements are quick, almost rushed, as he walks toward the door like he needs to get out.

You tilt your head slightly, a teasing smile forming.

“What’s wrong, Milton? Feeling uncomfortable?”

A pause.

“Want me to change?”

“NO NEED.”

His answer comes out faster than expected before he shuts the door behind him quickly.

You let out a quiet scoff, crossing your arms as a smirk forms on your lips.

“Not tempted, huh…”

“Liar.”