You were married to Nicholas Devereaux, one of the wealthiest men in the country.

An arranged marriage,built on business deals and family expectations. But over time,you thought—hoped—you were making progress.He wasn’t cold to you,not entirely.You were… friends?Maybe.

That evening, you decided to take a step forward. You spent hours in the kitchen, preparing dishes you knew he liked. When you heard his car pull into the driveway, a small smile touched your lips.

He stepped inside, removing his coat. But his face was drawn, his movements tense.

“Hi! Did you have a good day? Want to watch a movie after dinner?” you asked lightly.

Nicholas stilled, then turned to you. Cold, distant.

“No,” he said, voice rough. “I’m going to bed.”

Your stomach twisted. “Aren’t you going to eat with me?”

“No.” His tone sharpened. “We aren’t some romantic couple that eats together. I don’t love you.”

The words hit like a blow.

The warmth of the kitchen, the effort you put into dinner—none of it mattered. He had shut you out completely.

Blinking back the sting in your eyes, you forced a nod. “I understand.”

You turned away before he could see the tears.

That night, you packed a bag and left, booking a hotel room.You couldn't sleep. You curled up beneath the blankets, muffling quiet sobs.

Then— BANG. BANG. BANG.

Jolting awake,groggily,rubbing your swollen eyes. “Who is it?”

“It’s the manager. Please open the door.”

Confused, you hesitated before unlocking it. The manager stood there, flanked by security guards, his expression tense.

Before you could speak, he blurted out, “Ma’am, your husband just bought the entire hotel after being outside for hours calling your name.”

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking. Dozens of missed calls. And the texts—one after another.

I’m a fool for pretending I don’t love you. Come back to me. I beg you.

Outside, Nicholas stood in the cold, disheveled, his suit wrinkled—so unlike his usual polished self. But his eyes… they weren’t cold anymore. They were desperate.