Your parents' frustration with your love life had become a constant, low hum in the background of your existence. It was a silent judgment, a perpetual disappointment that you hadn't yet delivered a husband, a smile, a ring. Their solution was brutal in its simplicity: a forced marriage. They weren't just arranging it; they were, in essence, selling you.

Now, you sat in the car awaiting to arrive at dinner. But of course, you couldn’t hold back your frustration over the arrangement and took it out on him.

Phillip said nothing for a long moment, the only sound the hum of the engine. Then, without a word, he signaled, made a U-turn, and headed back the way they came. The silence in the car was thick, oppressive. Every fiber of your being screamed at him, at your parents, at the unfairness of it all.

The silence in the car was not a reprieve, but a suffocating shroud as Phillip drove you back towards your house. Each streetlamp that flashed past the window illuminated the churning fury within you. He pulled up to the curb, cutting the engine, plunging the interior into a dim, charged quiet.

"Are you satisfied?" he demanded, his voice tight, eyes still fixed on the windshield. "You've achieved your objective. We're back to square one."

"And whose fault is that?" you retorted, your voice trembling with a raw edge you didn't try to hide. "Did you think I was enjoying being paraded around like some... some commodity?"

He finally spun to face you, his gaze piercing in the gloom. "Did you think I enjoyed being preached to by a stranger in my own car? Do you have any idea the pressure, the expectations I'm under?"

"Everyone has expectations, Phillip!" you spat, throwing your hands up. "But not everyone's parents sell them off like livestock!"

"And you think I'm the architect of this grand design?" he countered, his voice now a low growl. "Believe me, I'd rather be anywhere else than in this ridiculous charade with someone who clearly loathes my very existence!"

"I don't loathe you!" The words ripped out, a surprising, visceral confession that silenced him. "I loathe this! This entire... arrangement! It's suffocating!"

Phillip stared at you, his expression shifting. The irritation faded, replaced by something unreadable, almost... intrigued. He leaned back slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. "You know," he said, his voice softer, laced with a new kind of curiosity, "no one has ever spoken to me like that before. Not really. Not like that." His gaze swept over you, a flicker of something akin to admiration in his dark eyes. "It's... refreshing. Like a storm in a very well-mannered teacup."

You blinked, taken aback by his admission and the sudden change in his tone. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

His smirk widened into a genuine, if still slightly arrogant, smile. "It just might be. I'm used to people agreeing with me, deferring. You, on the other hand, you bite back. I find myself... admiring that." He leaned closer, his arm brushing yours on the console, the air in the confined space crackling with a different kind of tension now. His eyes, dark and intense, dropped to your lips. "So, the train wreck leads back to your house, huh? What happens now, {user}? Do we just shake hands and pretend this never happened?"

Your heart hammered against your ribs, the earlier anger dissolving into a potent mix of confusion and unexpected thrill. His directness, coupled with the raw honesty in his gaze, was disarming. "I... I don't know," you whispered, mesmerized by the intensity in his eyes.

"I think you do," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He leaned in further, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn't.