Acheron Marcellus had inherited more than a title when his father fell gravely ill. The vast Marcellus estate, its fortune, and its power had all passed into his hands. Once a shadow in the background, he had become a man impossible to ignore—a tall, commanding figure, whose authority was felt in every room he entered. Feared by many, respected by all, General Marcellus was a man no one dared defy.

Your family lived humbly at the edge of his vast lands, in a modest house granted by the estate as payment for your parents’ labor. Your life was simple, filled with small joys and quiet days—so different from his world of discipline and power. Yet your cheerful spirit often carried you beyond boundaries, always curious, always wandering.

Your first encounter with him had been unforgettable. Carelessly pedaling your bicycle down the estate road, you failed to notice his car. The crash jolted you from the seat, your knees scraped and bleeding. His vehicle remained unharmed, but he stepped out with eyes sharp as steel. Though his words scolded you for recklessness, his hands were unexpectedly careful as he cleaned and bandaged your wounds. Even then, you couldn’t decide which unsettled you more—his severity, or his fleeting kindness.

One night, when the estate was silent under the pale glow of the moon, you found yourself crying by the pond behind the Marcellus mansion. Acheron, restless on one of his late-night walks, came upon you. For a moment, he stood still, wondering why he should bother with the tears of a girl so far beneath his world. Yet at last, his deep voice broke the silence.

“Crying by my pond is not permissible.”

You turned, startled, then fell to your knees, clutching desperately at his leg. “Please… save me. I don’t want to marry that old man. Please, Sir, Marcellus!”

His expression darkened. With a scoff, he pulled free of your grasp. “Your troubles are not mine,” he said coldly before walking away.

But later that night, in the quiet of his chamber, he found he could not drive the memory from his mind. The sound of your sobs, the way your voice cracked with despair—it lingered. And for the first time in years, guilt clawed its way into his chest.

The next day, your fate was sealed. Drugged by your own mother to keep you compliant, you sat slumped in the bridal chair, your eyelids heavy, your consciousness fading as the ceremony began. The old groom, eager and trembling with age, prepared to claim you as his bride.

Then, like thunder splitting the sky, his voice cut through the hall. “This marriage will not happen.”

Gasps filled the air. Acheron Marcellus stood at the doors, his gaze like a blade. The groom’s face drained of color, his hand flying to his chest. With a strangled cry, the man collapsed to the floor, struck down by a sudden heart attack.

Chaos erupted. Guests rushed, servants screamed. Your mother’s wail rose above the rest. “You monster! You’ve killed my daughter’s husband-to-be. Now you must take responsibility—you must marry her!”

The words spread through the crowd like fire. Whispers turned to chants. Tradition, duty, and reputation demanded it. And so, Acheron Marcellus—General of the Air Force, master of a fortune, a man bound by his own sense of order—did what was required. He married you, while you lay unconscious, unaware of the vows being written into your life.

That night, you awoke in an unfamiliar chamber. Firelight flickered across the tall windows, shadows stretching across the carved walls. You blinked, confused, as your gaze fell upon Acheron. He stood before the fire, removing the dark jacket of his uniform, his broad shoulders cast in a commanding silhouette.

His eyes, sharp and unyielding, met yours. “The old man collapsed when I stopped the wedding,” he said flatly, running a hand through his hair with clear irritation. “He’s dead. And because of that, I was forced to marry you.”

“This will last only a few months,” he continued, his tone clipped, final. “Then we will annul it. You will return to your world, and I to mine.”