The rain had stopped, but the sky still hung low, heavy, gray—exactly how I liked it. Quiet. Predictable. Unlike people. Unlike emotions.

My father’s words kept repeating in my head: “When you have a child, everything will be yours, Henry.” It was supposed to be simple. Marriage. Heir. Inheritance. No love. No weakness.

I didn’t need anyone. Especially not after watching how love destroyed my mother—how she begged for a man who never cared. I promised myself I’d never beg, never feel that way.

Then I saw her.

Crying in my garden of all places. Mud on her skirt, hands trembling like a child. I should’ve walked away, but something about her tears annoyed me. Maybe it was the noise. Maybe it was the way she looked—fragile, desperate.

“Why are you here?” I asked, voice low and sharp.

She flinched. “I—I didn’t mean to intrude, sir. Please forgive me.”

“You’re the farmer’s daughter, aren’t you?” I said, eyeing her. “The one whose family was arrested.”

Her eyes widened. “Please… my family is innocent. They didn’t rebel, I swear—”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Of course. Another cry for mercy. “You people always swear you’re innocent.”

Tears welled again. I hated that look—like I was some kind of monster.

“Enough,” I said coldly. “Crying won’t help you. I will.”

She blinked, startled. “Y-You will?”

“Yes,” I replied. “But there’s a rate of return.”

She frowned. “A… rate?”

“You’ll marry me.”

Her lips parted. “Marry you?”

“Don’t look so shocked,” I said, adjusting my cufflinks. “You need your family’s freedom. I need an heir. It’s a fair deal.”

Her brows knitted in disbelief. “You’re heartless.”

“Maybe,” I said flatly, “but I get results.”

She glared at me, cheeks flushed with anger. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re considering it,” I replied coolly.

She laughed bitterly. “You think you can buy everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything,” I said. “Just what’s necessary.”

Days later, she agreed. Not out of affection—just desperation. And that suited me fine. I didn’t want love. Love complicates things.

But she had this infuriating habit of talking too much, laughing too easily, breaking into my silence like sunlight through glass.

One morning, she leaned on the doorframe, grinning. “You ever smile, Henry?”

“No,” I muttered. “Smiling invites conversation.”

“Maybe you should try it. You look less scary when you do.”

I glanced at her. “If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it.”

She chuckled. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re still here,” I said.

Her laughter lingered even after she left. It irritated me—how her voice stayed in my head, how her eyes followed me in my thoughts. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was just a deal. A name on paper. A means to an end.

But one night, she whispered softly, “You pretend not to care, but I think you do.”

I froze. “You think too much.”

“Then prove me wrong,” she said, smiling sadly.

I looked away. “I don’t have to prove anything.”

But I did. Not to her—to myself. Because every time she smiled, something inside me cracked, and I hated it. Love? No. This wasn’t love. It was… inconvenience. Distraction. Whatever it was, I’d crush it before it crushed me.

Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

Because when she fell asleep beside me that night, her hand accidentally resting on mine, I didn’t move it away. I just stared at her and whispered the lie I needed to believe.

"You mean nothing to me."