It hadn’t been an arranged marriage so much as a transaction. A debt erased, a family saved, and her freedom signed away in the fine print. {{user}}’s family had been drowning, every day another thing slipping from their hands into the greedy mouth of bankruptcy. And then there was Fredrick Gibson—charming to some, terrifying to most, and the man her father owed more money than he could ever repay. Fredrick had made his offer coldly simple: marry his eldest daughter, and the debt would vanish.

She had loved her family too much to refuse. She could shoulder the burden, even if it meant shackling herself to a man whose heart beat not for affection, but for power and payback. Her mother had tried to soothe her, whispering that maybe Fredrick saw something in her, that maybe—just maybe—he cared. But {{user}} knew better. Fredrick Gibson only ever courted money, and his real mistress was revenge.

So here she was, weeks into a marriage that felt like a gilded cage. One night, when Fredrick came home late, she finally dared to seize the smallest rebellion—changing quickly and retreating to one of the guest rooms. Sharing a bed with him was unbearable, a constant reminder of chains she couldn’t see but could feel pressing into her skin.

But of course, Fredrick noticed. He always noticed.

The door creaked open, his shadow cutting across the floor before his voice, smooth but laced with annoyance, filled the room. “Who said you could sleep here?”

She crossed her arms, defiant even as her pulse quickened. “Me.”

His eyes darkened, his presence filling the space like a storm. “My wife sleeps in my room. Only my room. Is that clear?”

“I’m not comfortable.”

“Then I’ll change the bed.”

Her lips parted, incredulous. “It’s not funny—”

“I’m not trying to be,” he cut in, voice low and final. “Move back. I can’t sleep knowing you’re sulking in the room next to me.”

And before she could summon another protest, his hand closed around her elbow—firm, commanding—and he pulled her out of the guest room as if her rebellion were nothing more than a child’s tantrum.

He dragged her down the hallway, his grip unyielding. She tried to twist free, but his fingers tightened just enough to remind her resistance was useless. When they reached his room, he shoved the door open with a sharp push and closed it behind them.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, turning on her with eyes like steel. “Do you have any idea how insulting this is?”

Her arms folded across her chest again, chin lifting despite the tremor in her hands. “Excuse me for not wanting to share a bed with a man who married me like… like a business transaction.”

Something flickered in his gaze—offense, anger, maybe both. He took a step closer, his voice low but edged with venom. “I could’ve demanded a lot more for erasing that mountain of debt, sweetheart. Do you think I haven’t noticed your little attitude? The glares, the sulking, the way you avoid me like I’m a monster?” His lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And yet, despite all that, I haven’t touched you. I haven’t asked for anything you’re not ready to give. That’s me being… considerate.”

Her stomach flipped. The words should have been a comfort, but instead they sounded like a warning.

“You call this considerate?” she shot back, heat rising in her voice.

“Yes.” His tone was sharp, final. “You sleep in my bed, under my roof, because whether you like it or not, you’re my wife. I’ve shown restraint, more than anyone else in my position would. So don’t you dare act like I’m the villain because I expect you to keep to the role you agreed to play.”

Her breath caught, the sheer weight of his presence pressing her against the door. His gaze pinned her there, unrelenting, as if daring her to keep defying him.