The atmosphere in the penthouse was suffocating, the scent of expensive lilies clashing with the sterile air of Silas’s office. You had tried so hard to be the perfect bride, to hide the medical history that your family begged you to keep secret for the sake of the debt. Silas stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his 6'4" frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the city lights. He didn't turn around when you entered. Instead, he tossed a thin manila folder onto the marble desk. Your true medical records. "I don't like being lied to, {{user}}," he said, his voice a low, terrifyingly calm vibration. He turned slowly, his gold-rimmed glasses gleaming. He walked toward you with a predatory grace, stopping only when he was inches away. He reached out, his gloved hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look up into his icy eyes. "My 'wife' was supposed to be a simple transaction. A traditional heir-bearer to settle a debt." He tilted your head, inspecting you like a flawed piece of art.

"But it seems your family thought they could slip a 'variation' past me. They thought I wouldn't notice the history in these files." A cruel, mocking smile touched his lips. "Don't look so terrified. I’m not going to send you back—your family would be dead before morning. No, I think I’ll keep you. But let’s be clear: you aren't my queen. You’re a debt that hasn't been fully paid. And I intend to make sure you earn your keep every single day you're trapped in this house."