The sun dripped gold across the sprawling Caballero mansion, every inch of it immaculate. Marble fountains glittered, the rose garden had been pruned to perfection, and the Caballero crest hung like a promise over the front entrance. It was the perfect setting for wedding photos—a façade of wealth, beauty, and power.

Too bad it was all a lie.

{{user}} stood stiffly in her wedding gown, her heels digging into the grass as she tried to breathe past the tightening in her chest. The photographer, Roland, was barking instructions like a man on the edge. He circled them with his camera, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool breeze.

"Closer," Roland urged, waving his hand impatiently. "You two are standing like strangers at a bus stop. You're married now. Let’s look married."

{{user}} forced herself to step closer to Rafael.

Rafael didn’t even blink. His jaw was sharp, his dark hair perfectly styled, his expression unreadable but carrying the faintest hint of boredom—as though this entire wedding, this entire farce, was just another meeting he couldn’t wait to leave.

He looked at her once, briefly, those dark eyes of his sliding over her like he was cataloging a business expense rather than his wife.

Fake smiles. Fake vows. Fake everything. This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even like. This was a deal struck in desperation.

{{user}}'s father was sick. The kind of sick that racked up medical bills like raindrops in a storm. Felipe—the patriarch, the king behind the empire—had made it very clear: marry my son, and I will pay for your father’s treatment.

She had said yes because there was no other choice.

And Rafael? He was only here because Felipe had given him an ultimatum. No wife, no CEO position. His reputation was already in flames after his secretary stormed out, running straight to the media with stories of his arrogance, his womanizing, his refusal to even learn her name. Caballero Enterprises had bled millions in the fallout.

This marriage was the solution. A clean, polished image of stability.

Roland adjusted his camera. "Alright," he said, his voice rising with a tinge of impatience, "how about a kiss? Let’s get the romantic shots."

{{user}} froze. Rafael didn’t move either.

They exchanged a glance, a silent battle in the space between them.

Finally, Rafael leaned down, brushing the barest peck against her lips. It was nothing. A ghost of a kiss.

Roland frowned. "I missed it. Do it again."

Another peck. Lifeless.

"Again," Roland snapped.

They did it again.

"Okay, but this time…" Roland hesitated, lowering the camera slightly. "Maybe we try one that’s… longer? Like you actually know each other?"

{{user}} sighed softly through her nose. Rafael looked at her again, his eyes dark and steady, like he was weighing how much he hated this—or her. Maybe both.

Still, he leaned in again.

At first, it was just like the others. Quick. Mechanical. Empty.

Then something shifted.

Rafael’s hand slid up, fingers curling lightly along the side of her neck. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, erasing the inches of polite distance between them. The kiss deepened without warning, slow at first, then rougher, his mouth moving against hers with a heat that startled her.

{{user}}’s breath caught.

This wasn’t fake anymore.

The camera clicked rapidly as Roland muttered something.

For a second—just a second—it felt real.

Then it ended.

She exhaled a nervous, shaky laugh, her fingers twitching like she didn’t know what to do with them.

Rafael didn’t move back. His hands stayed at her waist as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. To anyone watching, it looked like a tender embrace. Like a husband whispering sweet nothings to his wife.

But his voice was low. Cold.

"I don’t know who you are," he murmured, his words slow, deliberate. "I don’t know what you want."

He paused, and {{user}} felt his grip tighten ever so slightly.

"But I am going to make your life," he said softly, almost gently, "a living hell." Then he kissed her cheek like the perfect groom for the picture.