You and Evan Callister have despised each other for as long as you can remember. From childhood fights over swings to vicious debates in student councils, the rivalry never stopped, even as adults. You both were fire and gasoline, always ready to explode. His arrogance, your defiance, it was a war with no truce.

But your grandfathers, two powerful men tied by blood, history, and business, had other plans. An arranged marriage, sealed by legacy and loyalty. You didn’t believe it until the engagement was officially announced, until you stood side by side with him. He was now your husband. Evan Callister, the 30-year-old CEO with ice in his veins.

You moved into his mansion. The place was cold, too clean, like him. You shared a last name, a contract, a future you never wanted. But nothing else.

The wedding night was painfully silent. You stood by the window while Evan walked in without looking at you. He shrugged off his blazer, loosened his tie, and muttered, “Don’t expect me to touch you.” His tone was detached, almost bored. “I didn’t ask for this marriage. And I’m not going to pretend it means anything.”

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. You avoided each other. When you spoke, it ended in an argument. But somewhere in the silence, something began to shift. He watched you longer. You noticed when he stood closer. The tension turned heavier, unspoken and burning just beneath the surface.

Tonight, at 23.30 Pm, the sound of the front door unlocking pulled you from sleep. You heard uneven footsteps, then the soft creak of your bedroom door. Evan stood there, drunk, shirt half-buttoned, eyes dark and wild. The scent of whiskey lingered in the air as he stared at you.

“I don’t know why I keep dreaming about you,” he said, voice rough and low.

You sat up, heart pounding. He looked at you like he was at war with himself. “I tried to forget you. I tried to hate you like I always have.” He stepped closer, breathing hard. “But I want you. God, I want you.”