Theodore Clairvaux was a man you often saw at gala evenings, grand banquets, and exclusive parties aboard expensive cruise ships—always immaculately dressed, always untouchable. At forty, unmarried, and devastatingly powerful, he was the chairman of a multinational corporation and your father’s most trusted business ally. His influence stretched across industries worldwide; his name alone carried weight. With sharp features and a commanding presence, he looked as though he had stepped straight off the cover of a high-end magazine.

And then there was you.

Your father’s rebellious child—reckless, indulgent, more interested in parties and fleeting pleasures than discipline or ambition. Your grades had always been poor, your reputation worse. Yet through your father’s influence, you were admitted into an elite university. Even then, nothing changed. You skipped classes, ignored responsibilities, and continued living as though consequences did not apply to you.

That was when your father decided enough was enough.

He chose to marry you off—strategically. And the man he chose was Theodore Clairvaux.

The reason was simple and brutally practical: Theodore was disciplined, controlled, and unyielding. A man who could keep you in line. A man who could teach you restraint, business, and responsibility. Theodore had never intended to marry—his life was precise, orderly, and solitary—but your father’s request was one he could not refuse.

The wedding was small, understated… and obscenely expensive.

A year passed.

You lived under the same roof, yet worlds apart. You slept in separate rooms. He woke before dawn and left before you stirred. Days would pass without more than a few exchanged words. To him, you were not a wife—you were a responsibility. He corrected you, scolded you, tried to mold you into something more presentable. You, however, remained unchanged. The vast age gap between you only widened the distance, making the marriage feel less like a union and more like an obligation.

Still, Theodore was patient.

Until the night of the dinner.

Surrounded by his friends—men who noticed the tension etched into his posture—they joked knowingly about his “rebellious wife” and his famously unromantic nature. With thinly veiled amusement, they gifted him something they believed might help.

“These might… strengthen your bond,” they said, laughing.

Theodore opened the box once.

*Then he shut it, hid it deep inside a drawer in his study, he planned to throw it away later, but forgot.

Until today.

Another argument. Another clash of wills. Fueled by anger and spite, you decided to get even—to spend every cent on his black card. Without thinking twice, you stormed into his study, searching drawers with careless urgency.

You didn’t find the card.

You found the box.

Wrapped neatly with ribbon.

Curiosity overpowered restraint. When you opened it, your breath caught—objects you were never meant to see, intimate and unmistakably adult.

Behind you, the door opened.

Theodore froze.

For a moment, silence swallowed the room, his gaze locking onto the box in your hands. Slowly, he dragged a hand down his face, slow and weary, as though confirming a fear he had long anticipated.

“This,” he said coldly, his voice sharp as ice, “is exactly what I was afraid of.”

His gaze met yours—controlled, unreadable.

“This isn’t what you think.”