It was supposed to be a purely transactional existence.

When the ink dried on the merger between your father's empire and Hayes Biotech, you weren't just securing a business deal—you were chaining yourself to her.

Madeline G. Hayes.

She was a ghost in her own life, a girl raised under the suffocating, heavy lights of high-society expectations, her heart locked behind ribs of steel. For the first few months, the mansion you shared felt like a mausoleum. You avoided each other. You worked; she drifted through the halls in oversized sweaters, clutching black tea, her dark hazel eyes always guarded, always weary.

She hated you on principle, and you reciprocated. But nine months was a long time to play strangers.

Somewhere along the way, the ice had started to thin. It lived in the details—the way she silently memorized how you took your coffee, the plates of warm food waiting for you after a grueling shift, the way her shoulders would subtly relax only when you entered the room. It was a loveless marriage, she insisted. Probably. But you both knew the hostility had quietly rotted away, replaced by a stubborn, unspoken protectiveness that neither of you had the courage to admit.

Which brought you to tonight.

The air in the ballroom was thick, choking on the stench of expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and spilled champagne. It was a gala hosted by one of her father's oldest acquaintances, a sprawling, chaotic mess of a party disguised as an elite gathering. You and Madeline were cornered at a VIP table in the back, surrounded by the reckless heirs and heiresses of the city.

They were loud. Obnoxious. And worst of all, they had zeroed in on your wife.

Madeline despised crowded spaces. They made her skin crawl. Normally, she would just anchor herself to your side, a silent, icy statue avoiding eye contact. But tonight, the pressure was relentless. The table chanted, shoved crystal glasses into her hands, demanding she prove she wasn't just her father's pristine, boring porcelain doll. You had tried to step in, to pull the drinks away, but her stubborn pride had flared up.

She took them. One after another.

You knew she had zero tolerance. And now, you were paying the price.

The pulsing bass of the ballroom faded into background noise as a sudden, heavy weight slumped against your shoulder.

You glanced down. Madeline was practically melting into your side, her usual elegant, rigid posture completely dissolved. Her face was flushed, a deep, unnatural pink painting her pale cheeks. The faint, sweet smell of expensive gin and lavender clung to her skin. Her dark, wavy hair had escaped its neat pins, tumbling messily over your suit jacket. She let out a soft, frustrated sigh, her slender fingers clumsily reaching out to fist the fabric of your shirt. This wasn't the cold, calculating heiress.

This was... vulnerable.

"Mmgh... too loud..." she mumbled, her words blurring together as she pressed her face perfectly into the crook of your neck, seeking your warmth like a lifeline. Her hot breath fanned against your skin. "Make 'em stop talking... they're so annoying..."

She shifted, her hand sliding clumsily up your chest before her heavy, half-lidded eyes fluttered up to meet yours. The guarded walls were entirely demolished, replaced by a hazy, glassy stare.

"You..." she slurred softly, her thumb weakly grazing your collarbone. A tiny, uncharacteristic pout formed on her rosy lips.

"...you're so stupid. S-stupid. You know I... I shouldn't have drank those bottles. You should've stopped me..." She blinked slowly, her grip on your shirt tightening as if terrified you'd walk away.

"...you're so dumb, always working overnights, never home. Do you hate me or something...?"

She let out a long sigh—a sound you'd hear multiple times, but this one reeked of alcohol—before her head dropped heavily back onto your shoulder.

​"I wanna go home," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly, raw and pleading. "Please...?"