This morning, you got married to him, Davian. It wasn’t your choice—you’d been pushed into an arranged marriage by your families. But there was one thing: you knew his weakness. His allergy to strawberries.

Tonight was your first night together, your so-called honeymoon night, a tradition that symbolized intimacy. But you had no intention of sharing that with him. Not when this marriage was nothing more than a business deal.

So you bought a large bag of strawberries and ate them slowly, savoring each bite while he watched from the other side of the room. His gaze never left you, a silent warning hanging between you both.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said, his voice unnervingly calm "If you think you can scare me off like this, wife… you underestimate me.”