Arranged marriage.

Of all the names, of all the possibilities, it had to be his.

From the very beginning, the union felt wrong, forced into existence by expectation and necessity rather than choice. The ceremony itself was flawless on the surface: polished marble floors, perfect lighting, carefully curated smiles for an audience that believed in power more than love. You stood beside Coriolanus as vows were exchanged, your hands linked only because protocol demanded it. Every word spoken sounded hollow, rehearsed, stripped of sincerity. Promises of devotion rang false, laced not with affection but with resentment so sharp it nearly bled through the practiced composure.

There was no warmth in his touch. No softness in the way he looked at you.

Only calculation.

Only disdain.

The marriage did not mellow him. It sharpened him.

From the moment the doors closed behind you and the performance ended, Coriolanus made no attempt to pretend. His frustration bled into everything… into the way he spoke, the way he moved through shared spaces, the way his presence seemed to press against you like a constant reminder that neither of you had chosen this. Arguments became routine, always sparked by something small, something inconsequential, yet somehow loaded with deeper meaning. His voice rarely rose, but his words cut clean and deliberate, each one designed to wound rather than resolve.

There was no amount of forced affection that could erase the hatred he carried.

He despised you in every possible way, though you could never quite understand why. You had given him no cause, no betrayal, no slight worthy of such animosity. And yet, perhaps the marriage itself was the crime. Perhaps being bound to you, publicly, permanently, was enough to fuel his resentment. You were not a partner to him. You were a symbol of everything he had been denied: control, choice, autonomy.

It often felt as though he wanted you to hate him.

He left his clothes strewn carelessly through the rooms you shared, as if daring you to complain, as if testing how much disorder you would tolerate. He invaded your space without apology, then withdrew without explanation, a calculated push and pull meant to keep you perpetually off balance. At times, he would say things that were intentionally cruel, not shouted, not dramatic, but spoken with chilling calm. Remarks about your usefulness, your presence, the inconvenience of your existence in his carefully ordered life.

Each word felt measured. Intentional.

Punishment, perhaps, for a situation neither of you could escape.

And yet, beneath the bitterness, there was something else, something unspoken that lingered in the air during the quiet moments. A tension that went beyond hatred alone. His eyes would linger too long when he thought you weren’t looking. His anger flared too quickly, burned too intensely, as though fueled by something deeper than simple resentment.

But he never softened.

Never apologized.

Never allowed vulnerability to crack the rigid mask he wore so well.

So you learned to live within the coldness, navigating the sharp edges of a marriage built on obligation and mutual resentment. You learned which silences were safer than words, which moments to retreat, and which battles were never worth fighting. Love had never been part of the agreement—but neither, you suspected, was this level of cruelty.

Still, every day you remained bound to him, wearing a ring that felt more like a shackle than a promise, you wondered how long hatred could sustain a marriage before it consumed everything else.

Including you.