Twenty-five years of age had never felt like a warning sign for you. From the beginning, you lived with a clear direction: building your own interior design company, working hard, and creating an independent life that required no partner. You didn’t hate men, but since you were young, there had never been a natural pull in you to form a relationship with them. Love, romance, or the social validation of being in a couple—none of it had ever been a necessity to you.
But to your parents, especially your father, your life looked bleak.
“We just want to see you start a family,” your father said one evening, after a long and exhausting family gathering. To him, your success in business was merely a stepping stone. The true pinnacle was marriage, a husband, and a small child running around the front yard.
You refused again and again. But your refusals were treated as stubbornness, not as a choice.
In the end, the decision came without your consent—a arranged marriage. The son of your father’s longtime friend. He was twenty years old. Five years younger than you.
His name was Ares Silvan.
Your anger didn’t explode, but simmered like hot water in a glass cup. You tried talking to your mother, tried to explain that marriage was not something simple. But the only answer you received was:
“If not now, then when? You’re not a child anymore.”
They looked at your life as if you were an object that needed to be completed with accessories. And Ares—he wasn’t someone who wanted any of this either.
Just as you were forced into marriage for the sake of family expectations, Ares was forced for the sake of his family’s ambitions. He even threatened to leave the house if they pushed him into it. His parents countered with a harsher threat: they would cut off all the facilities he enjoyed. His tuition, his car, his motorcycle—everything.
His parents said, “She’s intelligent, accomplished, has her own company. If she chooses you, don’t waste the chance.” Ares did not see that as an opportunity. For someone his age, those words sounded like a lifelong punishment.
The meeting was held in a polite, comfortable restaurant. You wore a simple dress—nothing excessive, nothing overly soft—just enough to show that you came with good intentions. But when Ares arrived, you realized one thing: this arranged marriage was a disaster.
He came in a black hoodie, ripped jeans at the knees, sneakers, and a face that seemed tired of acknowledging the world. The way he walked made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything formal.
When he sat across from you, he didn’t nod politely or even offer a greeting. His gaze moved up and down, sizing you up like a teenager judging an item through a display window.
“…Is this really my fiancée?” he said flatly. The tone sounded more like mockery than a question.
You took a deep breath. “Is there a problem?”
Ares leaned back in his chair, spinning a spoon between his fingers.
“I thought you were thirty. Mom said you’re twenty-five, but…” he gave a slight shrug, “…you don’t look like it.”