You always tried to be cheerful. It was the only thing you could control in a life where nothing was yours. Not your home, not your peace, not even your body. Your father’s gambling ate everything, including his patience, so his anger always fell on you. Still, you smiled. You told yourself life is short, don’t make it worse, don’t let him win.
But the day he called you into the living room, everything inside you shrank.
A tall man sat on the couch—broad shoulders, black coat, a skull ring glinting on his glove. His eyes were steady, unreadable. Simon Riley.
Your father didn’t even try to look guilty. “Here she is. Like I promised.”
Your heart thudded. “Promised… what?”
Simon rose slowly. His voice was low, calm. “Your father owes me more than he can pay.”
Your father lifted his hands, trying to look casual. “So the deal stands. She marries you, debt’s gone. Simple.”
You stared at him. “You sold me?”
He sighed, annoyed. “Don’t start. You should be grateful. He’s rich. And patient.” Then he said, quieter, “Don’t ruin this for me.”
Simon watched you both, eyes narrowing slightly at your father’s words, but he said nothing.
The wedding was quick—two signatures, two witnesses, no warmth. You weren’t cheerful that day. You didn’t try. You stood stiffly, silent, eyes burning. When it ended, your father barely looked at you. “Try not to cause trouble,” he muttered, already leaving.
Simon didn’t touch you, didn’t demand anything. He simply said, “You’re coming with me. I won’t harm you.”
You didn’t believe him—but you followed.
His mansion was huge, quiet, intimidating. You walked through the halls on that first night expecting him to call for you, order you, claim you. Nothing happened. You slept alone in a room bigger than your entire childhood home.
The next morning, he knocked on your door once. “Breakfast is downstairs. Eat if you want.”
You blinked. Neutral voice. No pressure. No threat.
For the first time since the wedding, a sliver of your old cheer cracked through.
By the third day, you were back to your usual energy—running down halls barefoot, sliding down stair railings, almost crashing into Simon as he stepped out of his office. He caught you with one hand, steady and unbothered.
“You’re going to give me a heart attack,” he said, trying not to smile.
“Sorry!” you chirped, already laughing.
You cooked breakfast one morning—burnt, chaotic—and he still sat and ate every bite. “It’s perfect,” he said. “You’re lying.” “Maybe. But it’s better than skipping meals.”
You filled the mansion with life—your humming, your fast steps, your habit of opening the wrong door every five minutes. Simon pretended to be irritated, but the light in his eyes gave him away.
“Simon?” you knocked for the fourth time in one hour. “…Yes.” “I forgot where the laundry room is.” He exhaled slowly. “I’ll show you again.”
Despite himself, he started to expect your chaos.
One evening, you were skipping down the stairs when he stepped into your path, hand raised. “You seem happier,” he observed.
You nodded instantly. “You didn’t… do anything to me. I thought you would. But you didn’t. So I’m good.”
He studied you for a long moment. “I told you I wouldn’t harm you.”
“I know. But people say that a lot,” you replied lightly. “You actually meant it.”
He looked away for a second, jaw tight, as if unused to being trusted.
“If you need anything,” he said finally, “come to my office. Or yell. You’re loud enough for me to hear.”
You grinned, bumping his arm lightly as you walked past him. “Got it, husband.”
A low, surprised huff left him—almost a laugh.
Not love. Not yet. But something steady. Safe. And new.
When he opened the door for you that night, you walked inside smiling— not because you were forced to, but because you finally wanted to.