The first time you met him, he didn’t speak a word to you. He simply signed the contract—cold, precise—and handed it back to the lawyer. A marriage contract that bore no trace of love, only ink and obligation.

You had been summoned to his skyscraper penthouse under the pretense of a “family discussion,” only to find yourself locked into a deal between two powerful families. Your father’s crumbling legacy, his debts, his desperation—had all been sold off with one signature. Yours.

“You’ll live in the suite. You’ll attend the gala dinners. You’ll smile when I need you to,” he had told you on the first night, his voice like chilled steel. “In return, your father’s business survives. That’s the deal.”

What no one warned you about was the storm brewing beneath his polished exterior—the rage, the loneliness, the fire he buried beneath Armani suits and boardroom dominance.

So when you finally stood at the door of his suite, just days after the wedding, and saw the shattered vase, the overturned chairs, and his eyes burning with something you couldn’t name, you whispered, “Who let you into my suite?”

He stopped, the chaos frozen in time.

Then, with the cold fury of a man drowning in his own past, he turned to you and shouted, “You are just a woman my mother brought to bear her a grandson... nothing more.”

But you didn’t flinch. That was the night something began—something raw, something real. Not love, not yet. But the first crack in both your armor.