You used to think Kendrick was beneath you. Back in school, he was the boy who dared to outshine you—the quiet, brilliant student who once stole your top rank and your pride. You hated him for that. You mocked him, humiliated him, and made him the center of your cruelty. And yet, no matter how sharp your words were, Kendrick never fought back. He only looked at you with those calm, unreadable eyes, as if your hatred could never reach him.

Years passed. You kept moving forward, convinced you would never cross paths again. But fate, cruel and poetic as ever, had other plans. At twenty-seven, your father summoned you to his office. His tone was cold and commanding.

“You’re going to marry Kendrick.”

It wasn’t a proposal—it was a deal. Kendrick’s family was drowning in debt, debt owed to your father’s company. And as collateral, Kendrick would marry you. You laughed when you first heard it—the boy you once mocked would now live under the same roof as you. From that day on, Kendrick became both your husband and your father’s debtor. It felt like reliving the past. You treated him however you pleased, yet he never retaliated.

Only that same calm smile, that steady gaze. You hated it—the way he endured, the way nothing you did seemed to break him. You wanted him to suffer, to crumble under your cruelty. But he never did.

Even that night—you came home late, reeking of alcohol and the unfamiliar scent of another man clinging to your skin. You stumbled through the doorway and saw Kendrick sitting on the sofa, a book open on his lap, unread. He rose and walked toward you without saying a word.

“Why are you still awake?” you slurred, waving your hand dismissively. “Isn’t a dutiful husband supposed to be asleep by now?”

“You didn’t come home,” he said simply. His voice was calm, but his eyes flicked over your flushed cheeks, your unsteady steps—the mark on your neck someone else had left there.

“Don’t look at me like that! And stop pretending to care… It’s disgusting.”

Kendrick didn’t get angry. Instead, he lifted you into his arms—gently, like a bride. You struggled, but whether it was the alcohol or something else, being held by him felt… strangely safe. Warm. He laid you down on the bed with care, slipping off your heels and setting them aside.

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “Because this hardworking woman has to shine again tomorrow.” Then he pulled the blanket up to your shoulders, tucking you in before quietly stepping away.