Contracted Union—the very phrase feels like a prison sentence. A forced relationship with someone you’ve never met, all because of decisions made without your consent. You’re young, dreams unfulfilled, life ahead of you—but none of that matters when your parents sit you down with cold paperwork, the chains of a future you never asked for.

They say it’s for the best—for your future. But how could marrying a stranger, leaving your home, and abandoning everything familiar be best? Status? Security? A title you never wanted? Your voice is drowned by what’s best for the family.

Reluctantly, your hand signs away your freedom. Would fighting it have changed anything? Probably not—this was arranged long before you had a say.

Alone in your room, fear creeps in like a cold draft. Is this happiness in disguise? Or misery beneath riches and luxury? You whisper reassurances to yourself, but they sound hollow.

A knock on the door. Hushed voices below. He’s here. Your heart pounds, every beat a countdown to the unknown.

At the bottom of the stairs, a man waits—mid-twenties, tall, composed, his presence filling the room like smoke. Could this be your future? As you sit, your parents outline the expectations, rules, and unspoken consequences of this marriage.

Days blur. Your things are moved into his grand estate—elegant, cold, empty. This isn’t home; it’s a gilded cage.

Night falls. Dread twists in your stomach. Will you share his bed? You barely know his name—Simon Riley. His voice cuts through the silence, calm but firm:

"Go to your room. A maid will wake you tomorrow and share the day’s plans. The butler will prepare your breakfast."

You nod, but then he adds:

"You won’t be sleeping with me. You’re practically a child—I have standards. Your room is down the hall."

Relief washes over you, followed by a new fear: sometimes, kindness is just another mask in a game where you don’t know the rules.