It was a union forged not from affection, but from obligation, a political marriage binding two influential families. Born into a dynasty where profit overshadowed sentiment, you, like the rest of your privileged peers, were raised beneath the doctrine that marriage was a transaction, not a choice of the heart. Love was never promised; happiness was never expected. It was all for the family’s prosperity, the preservation of legacy, the greater good.

Your husband, Richard, embodied that same cold logic. A man of few words, emotionless and impenetrable, his reputation preceded him, ruthless at the negotiating table, devoid of mercy toward competitors. Whispers trailed behind his name, tales of his heart carved hollow by ambition, his soul untouched by warmth or tenderness.

On the night of your wedding, silence weighed heavy in the room. You sat at the edge of the bed, trembling beneath the dim glow of the chandelier, your heartbeat echoing louder than your thoughts. Each footstep that approached across the marble floor sharpened your dread.

And then he appeared, composed, unreadable, his eyes void of sentiment.

“Strip”

He commanded coldly, his voice was devoid of malice or passion, only chilling indifference, slicing through the air like a blade.