You had been trapped in an arranged marriage for almost a year.

Weeks—no, months—had passed without a single word exchanged between you and your husband, Vincent. And you fully intended to keep that silence unbroken.

It was late at night. You crept downstairs in nothing but a pair of lace pyjamas, expecting solitude. The house was dark, quiet.

But when you reached the kitchen, there he was—Vincent, leaning casually against the counter, an apple in his hand. He bit into it lazily, his eyes following you as you crossed the room. You ignored him, opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

You felt his gaze on your back, trailing over your bare legs, the lace of your sleepwear. He placed the apple on the counter with a quiet thud.

As you closed the fridge door and turned to head toward the pantry, his hand shot out and grasped your wrist. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to make you stop. Before you could react, he twisted you around, pressing you gently but insistently against the counter, trapping you between his arms.

You glared up at him, but said nothing.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked, his voice low, teasing. His eyes flicked over your face, waiting for a reaction.

Still, you refused to speak. You just stared him down, biting back the tremble in your chest.

His lips curled into a smirk “Let’s see how long you can keep that mouth shut,” he murmured, before sinking down to his knees—disappearing between your thighs