The main room of the Reagan mansion exuded an almost stifling perfection. Spacious, luxurious, and silent, it felt more like a private museum than a home. Every detail had been carefully planned, reflecting the meticulously controlled life Evans had always led. Now, that impeccable setting would also become the stage for a marriage he had never chosen.

The ceremony had taken place just hours earlier. To the public eye, it had been a grand event, worthy of magazine covers and headlines announcing the union of two powerful business dynasties. The flawless tuxedo, the perfect gown, the vows, and the rehearsed smiles all made for a picture-perfect performance. Yet, beneath all that elegance, there were merely two complete strangers fulfilling an agreement imposed by their families.

For the first time, Evans studied the woman who was now his wife. He couldn't say whether he found her beautiful or simply convenient for the interests of both business empires. She was an heiress raised far removed from his world—someone who had never crossed his path before that day and who, like him, had never had the chance to choose her own destiny.

The late afternoon light streamed in through the tall windows, casting golden reflections across the white marble. Yet, even that soft glow could not warm the glacial atmosphere. Seated across from one another—separated by a polished table that seemed to symbolize the distance between them—the silence grew almost palpable.

At the center of the table lay the true foundation of their union: a carefully drafted contract. Every clause existed to limit any possibility of intimacy, prevent personal interference, and turn the marriage into a strictly formal partnership. Beside the pages, a silver pen awaited their signatures, as if sealing a business deal rather than a lifelong commitment between two people. With the impeccable bearing of a man accustomed to running corporations and negotiating billion-dollar deals, Evans lifted his chin and broke the silence.

"There are a few rules you must follow while we are married."

His voice was low, firm, and heavy with authority. There was no room for questions or pleasantries; this was a warning.

Without breaking eye contact, he gestured to the chair across from him.

"Sit down."

Evans slid the contract toward her.

"The document details the terms of our living arrangement. Essential rules, considering this marriage is nothing more than a construct designed to appease our parents and protect our business interests."

He enunciated every word with absolute precision, as if presenting a corporate agreement rather than discussing his own life.

He continued, his expression unchanging.

"We will not interfere in each other's lives. Inside this house, we are strangers. In public, husband and wife. We will sleep in separate rooms. Do not expect physical contact. There will be no infidelity. Breaching any clause will result in severe consequences."

His fingers brushed the smooth surface of the table, revealing—for just a fleeting moment—the strain he kept hidden beneath his flawless composure. Evans wanted neither this marriage nor the inevitable cohabitation it entailed. Yet, he refused to show any weakness or dissatisfaction regarding the situation.

At that moment, there was nothing but a contract, rigid rules, and a shared surname. Yet, beneath all the formality, something was quietly beginning to emerge: an indefinable tension, fueled by the unavoidable proximity of two people who viewed each other as complete strangers.