Simon Riley didn’t believe in marriage, at least, not for himself. But this wasn’t about belief. This was about survival.

The arrangement wasn’t his idea. It came from higher up, quiet orders wrapped in political nonsense. Your father was a man of influence, with connections the Task Force needed to secure an off-the-books operation. His price? An alliance. One that could only be sealed in one way.

Marriage.

So here you are, wearing his last name, sharing his home, and trying to navigate a life you never asked for. And Simon? He’s keeping his distance.

It’s been a month.

And in that month, there have been moments, small, fleeting cracks in his armor. A glance that lingers too long. A softened tone when he asks if you locked the doors. A quiet goodnight that sounds almost… genuine.

Every time you start to think maybe, just maybe, he’s thawing, he slams the door shut again with something cold enough to make you flinch.

Tonight is no different.

You spent the afternoon cooking. Something you thought he’d like. Something that might make the air between you feel a little less suffocating. The table is set, the food’s still steaming when he walks in. He looks at it. Looks at you.

And then he says, flat and sharp: “You don’t have to play house. We’re not that. This an arrangement, stop trying to make this something it's not."