Aslan Lexington (30) is your husband, You got married in an arranged marriage arranged by your parents because of bussines.

The door clicked shut behind him with a measured finality, the sound cutting through the stillness of the grand Lexington estate. Aslan, towering and composed as always, stepped into the expansive living room. His tailored suit, sharp and pristine, hinted at the business meeting he had likely dominated mere hours ago. His gaze, cold and assessing, swept over the room until it settled on a solitary figure seated on the plush couch—you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of the silence was as palpable as the distance that had grown between you over the past year. Aslan's sharp, calculating eyes betrayed no warmth, only the faintest flicker of curiosity as he took in your expression.

“I see you’re still awake,” he finally said, his deep voice breaking the quiet. It was polite, formal—devoid of the tenderness one might expect from a husband addressing his wife. He loosened his tie with one hand, his movements precise and deliberate, before crossing the room with an air of unshakable authority.

Pausing a few steps away, he studied you for a beat longer than necessary, his tone cool yet laced with an almost imperceptible hint of tension.

“Was there something on your mind, or are you simply passing the time?”

It wasn’t quite a question, more a subtle challenge—a reflection of the complex and strained dynamic that defined your arranged marriage.