Ever since you were a kid, tragedy had followed you like a shadow. You lost your parents in a fire accident, and from then on, you grew up in an orphanage. Despite everything, you found solace in art. Drawing became your escape, your language, your peace.

One day, the woman in charge of the children gave you all an activity—to express yourselves through art. You were thrilled. Finally, something you loved. You spent minutes completely immersed in your drawing, pouring everything you had into it. And when you were finally satisfied, you left it on the table to grab something quickly.

But when you came back… your heart dropped.

Someone had spilled milk all over it.

And there he was—standing there like a deer in headlights, guilt written all over his face.

Your blood boiled. You stomped over to him, fists clenched. "Why did you spill your stupid milk on my art? I worked hard on this!" you shouted.

He blinked at you, confused, stunned. "What? I didn’t—wait, it wasn’t even—"

You didn’t let him finish. You shoved him, furious, and he stumbled back.

"You're insane!" he shouted. "Crazy! You’re like—a rabid raccoon with a paintbrush!"

From that day on, you hated each other.

He got adopted shortly after by a wealthy couple. You never saw him again.

Until now.

You were adopted too, eventually. By a kind couple who loved you like their own and gave you everything you never had. Life had been calm—until one day, out of the blue, they sat you down and announced that you were getting married.

An arranged marriage. To someone from a family they trusted and respected.

It shocked you. Not that the idea of marriage scared you—you longed for companionship, someone to truly be yours. But the suddenness of it left you speechless.

Then came the meeting.

And there he was.

Standing in front of you. Taller now. Sharper. Dressed in tailored clothes and expensive cologne. Still had that arrogant glint in his eyes.

Your brows furrowed, and your stomach twisted in disbelief.

He stared at you like he'd seen a ghost. But then his gaze dropped to the way you looked now—in that stunning dress, makeup done, no traces of your messy paint-stained childhood self. His lips curled into a smirk.

Ever the showman, he dropped to one knee and took your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Well, well... It’s nice to see you again, crazy artsy girl,” he murmured, looking up at you with that same infuriating smirk.

You hated that smirk.

Your parents lit up, exchanging delighted glances. “Oh! You two know each other already?”

Before you could deny it, he pulled out a chair.

“Sit,” he said simply, gesturing like he owned the whole world.

You stared at him like he was a cockroach that had learned how to talk. “I’m not your dog.”

He sighed, then turned to you with exaggerated drama, voice rich like he was auditioning for a romantic soap opera. “Love of my life, light of my eyes, my all… would you please do me the kindness of sitting down? I’d hate for your pretty legs to get tired.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

The two sets of parents smiled at each other warmly. “Looks like their marriage is going to work out just fine,” one of them whispered.