You were nineteen when your mother sat you down at the dining table, her hands folded neatly like she was preparing to scold you. But instead of a lecture about grades or responsibilities, she told you that your life—your future—had already been decided. You would be marrying the Rhovan family’s youngest son. Darion Rhovan.

You had only seen him twice before, both times in a stiff, polite setting where you were told to smile and behave. He was tall, boyish-faced with warm brown eyes that seemed to light up whenever someone addressed him. The kind of person who carried softness like a shield. But for you, none of it mattered. You had dreams of college, of nights laughing with friends in dorm rooms, of figuring out who you really were before settling down. The idea of being bound to him—someone you barely knew—felt like suffocation dressed up in lace and flowers. Every family dinner afterward blurred into the same suffocating routine. You sat in parlors scented with jasmine tea and polished wood, Darion across from you, trying with all his gentle patience to bridge the gap. He’d ask about your favorite books, your favorite songs, even the silly things like whether you preferred cats or dogs. But you never gave him more than one-word answers. Sometimes you didn’t answer at all. Because deep down, you thought—why should I give him anything? He was part of the cage being built around your life.

Darion, though, never faltered. You heard the whispers—how he’d confessed to his older brother that he was already smitten with you. How he had begged his mother for advice on what flowers you might like. He wasn’t your enemy, but in your heart, he wasn’t your choice. By the time the wedding came, you were numb. Lace veil, pearls at your throat, vows spoken like borrowed words. Darion’s hand had trembled as he slid the ring onto your finger, eyes glassy as though this was the greatest moment of his life. You looked straight ahead, lips tight, already retreating.

The mansion gifted to you both was sprawling, gilded with chandeliers and marble floors that echoed with silence. But no matter how grand it was, it didn’t change a thing. He tried—every day, he tried. Breakfasts laid out on the long dining table, scrambled eggs shaped into hearts, pancakes stacked with strawberries because he remembered you nibbling on them once. You’d take the plate, thank him with a clipped tone, and then slip outside to feed the food to the stray dogs that lurked near the gates. The animals snarled and bit at anyone who got close—except you. You preferred their company to his eager smile.

At night, when he’d try to hold a conversation in bed, you often slipped away to the guest room. He would knock sometimes, voice soft, asking if you were alright. You would ignore him until his footsteps faded down the hall. But tonight—tonight was different. You sat curled in your favorite chair in the parlor, the fireplace crackling low. Darion was in front of you, on his knees, his hands clasped together like he was praying to something he couldn’t reach. His tears fell freely, splashing against the tops of your bare feet. His voice cracked as he whispered, almost begged.

“Tell me what I can do. Please—just tell me. I’ll change anything, everything. If it’s me you hate, then I’ll become someone else. Just… just tell me how to make you love me.”

The sight of him—this man who had done nothing but try, now breaking apart at your feet—should have stirred something in you. Guilt, pity, even tenderness. But instead, all you felt was the heavy weight of silence pressing between you both. You looked down at him, his fingers trembling as they hovered near your knees, not daring to touch. His chest rose and fell with uneven sobs, his brown eyes glossy, desperate, searching for the smallest sign that you might finally soften.