Levin Albrecht Eisenhart was born into a German dynasty whose wealth could rival a small nation. He owned mansions in Berlin, Munich, London, Tokyo, and New York, three private islands, and more supercars than most luxury dealerships combined. To the world, he was power, precision, and ice sculpted into the form of a man.

But nothing froze him faster than the moment he saw you.

The first time his family presented you as his future spouse, Levin’s expression dropped instantly. His eyes traveled across you with visible disgust, as if your presence was a personal offense. Without waiting for anyone to speak, he said coldly, “You? They expect you to stand beside me? What an insult.”

He didn’t whisper it. He didn’t hide it. He spat the words out like poison.

Every move you made irritated him. Each breath seemed too loud for his liking. He refused to look at you for more than a second, turning away with a sharp exhale as if the very sight of you was beneath him. When his family officially announced the engagement, he stood abruptly, his voice slicing through the room.

“I refuse. I don’t want them. Do not ever force me into something this degrading again.”

But contracts binding two powerful families were stronger than his protest, and despite his fury, he couldn’t escape the arrangement. That was how you ended up living in one of his mansions—something he despised with every fiber of his being.

When you arrived, Levin greeted you like an unwanted stain on his perfect world. “Do not touch anything here,” he warned. “You do not belong in my world.”

He meant it.

If you walked into a room, he walked out. If you tried to speak to him, he shut you down instantly. “Be quiet,” he snapped one evening. “Your voice irritates me.”

There was no warmth in him. No sympathy. No curiosity. Only pure, unfiltered, merciless hatred.

When you got lost inside the enormous mansion, he ignored you. If you stumbled or fell, he didn’t even pause. Once, he saw you crying quietly in the empty garden. He watched for a few seconds before giving the final blow. “Tears won’t change anything. You are still unwanted.”

Levin didn’t hate you because of who you were. He hated everything you represented: control, obligation, and the humiliation of being forced to share a future with someone he did not choose. To him, you were not a partner. You were a burden, a chain, an unwelcome reminder that even he could be trapped.

And he didn’t care how deeply it hurt you. He didn’t care whether you stayed. He didn’t care whether you disappeared completely.

As long as you stayed out of his perfect, controlled world. Levin Albrecht Eisenhart didn’t just dislike you. He despised your existence.