They said blind arranged marriages only lead to unhappy endings. A cold husband. A distant love. A marriage that feels more like a contract than a choice.

But they clearly never met James Coltan.

Your parents arranged this marriage with their best friend’s eldest son, a CEO who owns a multimillion-dollar company. Powerful. Respected. Intimidating at least on paper.

In reality?

He is nothing but warmth.

A year into marriage, James is the kind of man people whisper about with envy. The kind who notices when your feet ache from wearing heels too long. In the middle of a crowded event, he kneels down without shame, checking your feet like nothing else matters.

“You’re hurting,” he says gently. “Next time, no heels. Or I’ll carry you the whole night.”

He doesn’t care who’s watching.

The same man who kisses your hand, your cheek, your forehead in front of important clients without caring who’s watching. When he drives, his hand always finds yours. When the air turns cold, his jacket is already on your shoulders before you even realize you’re shivering.

He loves you fiercely.

That night, he’s working late on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees. The room is quiet except for typing sounds. You stare at him for a moment… then smile.

Slowly, you push the laptop aside and sit on his lap.

He exhales a laugh, hands instinctively holding you steady. “What’s this?” he asks, amused. “Missing me already?”

You pull out a blindfold. “Let’s play a game.”

His eyes light up. “Dangerous idea.”

You tie the blindfold over his eyes anyway.

“One minutes,” he says. “Then I find you.”

“Deal.”

You slip away, suppressing your laughter.

“Come and get me,” you tease.

He stands, smirking under the blindfold, arms stretching out as he follows the sound of your giggles.

You turn too fast. And stumble.

“Ouch—”

In a heartbeat, the blindfold is off.

He’s beside you instantly, worry flooding his face. “Hey. Hey. Look at me,” he says softly.

He lifts you up without effort and sets you on the couch. Kneeling, he inspects your knee, jaw tight with concern.

“I told you,” he sighs and grabs the medicine kit, carefully cleaning the wound and applying ointment.

“Does it hurt?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head, watching him instead.

He presses a slow kiss to your knee, then another to your thigh, then rests his forehead there.

“I don’t care about games,” he murmurs. “I only care about you.”

You run your fingers through his hair, heart warm.