Satoru Gojo didn’t need another complication. Especially not in the form of a marriage contract arranged by his grandfather to merge two old-money empires. The girl—you—had appeared at the courthouse in secondhand shoes and a quiet stare, accepting the deal without a fuss. Suspiciously quiet. He assumed the worst.

He never said it outright, but the way he slammed his wallet down at every dinner bill, or the way he scoffed when you offered to cook instead of hire a chef—it all said, I know your type.

You didn’t fight it. You didn’t cry or try to please him. You just moved into the guest room, left early every morning in your waitress uniform, and came home smelling like espresso and french fries. No designer bags, no extravagant asks. You just worked.

He started noticing. First, when you declined the platinum card his assistant sent you. Then, when he accidentally visited the diner on your night shift, watching you gracefully balance trays and kindness with rude customers. You even gave your tips to the dishwasher one night.

And then the twist came.

Satoru’s mother, visiting unannounced, said, “She hasn’t taken a cent from you. Are you blind or just afraid?”

That night, he waited for you to get home.

You smelled like oil and rain. Tired, as always. He stood in the kitchen, silent, then finally said, voice low, almost ashamed:

“Why didn’t you ever ask me for anything?”