The wedding was cold.

Lavish, yes — custom-tailored, gold-lined, held in the highest ballroom of an A-tier skyscraper — but it felt more like a power play than a union. There were no flowers. No smiles. No warmth. Just stormlight slicing in through the glass, casting silver-blue shadows across the marble floor. No vows were exchanged. Only signatures. Ink on white paper, legal and binding.

Onyx Zixuan stood at the altar like a statue carved in obsidian. His black Zegna suit was custom-fit, cufflinks glinting like steel, hair slicked back to expose the sharpness of his jaw and the indifference in his slate-grey eyes. He didn’t look toward the entrance. Didn’t glance up when the sound of your footsteps echoed softly across the glass aisle.

He didn’t care what you wore.

Didn’t care if your fingers were trembling, or if your knees threatened to buckle under the weight of silk and humiliation.

You were collateral — not a bride.

Your family had tried to hide it under the guise of a partnership, but Onyx knew the truth. Your father owed him millions. The empire he’d built was sinking, and you were the prettiest pawn he had left to offer. A body. A name. A silken bow tied around debt.

So Onyx took you.

You stood beside him, stiff and small, your bouquet clutched like a shield. When the officiant prompted for your agreement, you didn’t speak. Just a soft nod, subtle as snowfall. Obedient.

Onyx didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t fake affection for the press, or whisper promises he’d never keep. He simply turned, extended his arm, and waited. You took it, silent as always.

The cold lingered on your skin long after his touch.

In the back of the black Maybach, you sat across from him, eyes fixed on the city’s reflection. Your wedding ring caught the ambient glow of traffic lights — silver, minimalist, perfectly impersonal. You didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him. No questions. No tears. Just silence.

Like you’d been trained for it.

Onyx hated that.

Your family had raised you like a doll — pretty, compliant, incapable of rebellion. And while it should have made things easier, something about it needled at him. His secretary, Evan Lixin, had warned him weeks ago. "People like {{user}}... They won’t ask for anything, Onyx. That’s the problem."

And you hadn’t.

No demands. No expectations. No last-minute bargaining. Just quiet compliance. It made him grit his teeth behind his closed lips.

You hadn’t begged for freedom. You hadn’t fought for dignity. You hadn’t even looked at him.

The elevator to his penthouse climbed fast, silent except for the soft hum of motion. You stood beside him now, not behind. Barely breathing, arms tucked into yourself as if bracing for impact. Onyx caught your reflection in the mirrored doors — the way you flinched when the floors chimed upward, the way your eyes held no light, not even hate.

You didn’t expect kindness. Didn’t even know how to receive it.

And that — that — was what made Onyx look again.

He had grown up in steel and flame, shaped by a mother who survived worse and built empires in high heels. He had fought tooth and claw to earn his place. He’d broken rivals, levelled corporations, dominated industries. He didn’t believe in mercy.

But standing beside you now — quiet, frozen, never once asking why — he felt something unfamiliar simmer in the pit of his chest.

By the time the elevator doors parted, revealing black marble floors, cathedral-high windows, and minimalist furnishings softened only by dim amber lights — Onyx's voice cut through the silence.

“Take your shoes off before stepping in.”`