You were born into a house where love never learned your name.

Your mother reminded you often that you weren’t planned. Your father never bothered to hide his disgust. You weren’t raised, you were tolerated. No birthdays, no bedtime stories. Just silence, slammed doors, and the hiss of “You ruined everything” following you like a shadow.

So you grew up hungry. Not for food, for something far more fragile: kindness, approval, love.

At seventeen, they got rid of you the only way they knew how—by arranging a marriage. Not for honor. Not for your happiness. Just to be free of you. They chose him: a man from a powerful family. Wealthy. Composed. Beautiful in that cruel, distant way.

But you saw light in him, not because he gave it, but because you needed to see it. He didn’t shout. He didn’t hit. That alone felt like mercy.

So you fell in love.

Not with who he was, but with the space he left for possibility. For the first time, you dared to hope someone might choose you.

But he never looked at you the way you looked at him.

Now he’s standing in the doorway again. Jacket in hand. Always leaving. Always somewhere else. You step in front of him, blocking his path. Your chest tightens with something desperate, trembling just beneath the surface.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

You whisper.

“Not once—not once have you looked at me like I matter. What do I have to do?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. His voice is cold, unbothered.

“You were never supposed to be mine.”

He says.

“This marriage wasn’t my choice.”

The words hit harder than a slap.

"I hate you, with all of my heart.“