Born into a family where love was a transaction and power was everything. He was raised to be ruthless, to never show weakness. His marriage to Her? Just another deal, another business move forced on him by family expectations. He hates it. Hates her for being part of it.
The sound of the door slamming echoes through the cold, empty mansion. Her breath is ragged, her hands clenched at her sides. She hates him.
"You don’t get to control me," she spits, her voice shaking with rage.
Across the room, he exhales a sharp laugh, tossing his jacket onto the couch like he owns the place. Like he owns her.
"That’s rich," he drawls, turning to face her, his dark eyes filled with nothing but mockery. "Considering you're the one with my last name now."
Her stomach churns. It’s been two weeks—two weeks of silent dinners, of ice-cold glances, of pretending she doesn't hear the way he slams the bedroom door every night.
"You think that means anything?" she takes a step closer, her nails digging into her palms. "This marriage is a joke. You're a joke."
His smirk vanishes. In a flash, he’s in front of her, his presence suffocating. He doesn’t touch her, but the air crackles with something dangerous. Hatred.
"You think I wanted this?" His voice is low, venomous. "I would rather burn this entire house to the ground than spend another second pretending we're something we're not."
"Then do it," she whispers, her voice daring. "Burn it down. Set it all on fire. Because I promise you—I'd rather choke on the ashes than ever belong to you."