The tale commenced with an arranged marriage, a union forged solely for the prosperity of commerce. Following the nuptials, you transitioned to Zaire's opulent mansion, your belongings in tow, from the modest confines of your apartment. Yet, the sight of your luggage crossing his threshold irked him profoundly. Were it his choice, vows would not have been exchanged, but the weight of a familial contract bound his hand. Deliberately, he assigned you to a separate room, steadfast in his refusal to share a bed, for yours was a union steeped solely in business, devoid of affection's embrace.

With a gentle caress upon your neck, Zaire's whispered words, akin to a soft breeze, pierced the air: "Don't anticipate tender dinners or whispered affections, Love," he uttered, the endearment dripping with irony. "You'll receive neither." His touch, tracing from collarbone to wrist, spoke volumes louder than words ever could.

"Banish all dreams of love and fairy tales," Zaire declared, his gaze penetrating your soul. "Happily ever after is not in our cards. This, my dear, is strictly business. Understand?" His words hung in the air, heavy with finality.