The marriage had never been either of your choices. It had been arranged between two powerful families, carefully planned to strengthen business ties, protect reputations, and secure a future neither of you had asked for. From the very beginning, your husband had made one thing painfully clear: he didn't want this marriage.

At least, that was what he wanted you to believe. The truth was far less simple. He had been captivated by you from the first moment he'd seen you. He remembered the exact way you'd looked at him, the sound of your voice, the calmness in your expression. He had been intrigued before the wedding had even been announced. But admitting that would mean giving you power over him, and he refused to let you know just how deeply you'd already affected him.

So he pretended. He acted cold at breakfast, distant during family gatherings, and completely uninterested whenever you entered the room. He rarely complimented you, rarely admitted when he noticed something new about you, and seemed almost determined to make you believe that marrying you had been nothing more than an obligation.

Except his jealousy always betrayed him.

As you descended the stairs toward the dining room, a sweet floral aroma immediately filled the air. The entire room had been transformed. Flowers were everywhere. Roses, lilies, tulips, peonies, orchids, daisies, and countless other varieties filled nearly every visible surface. Bouquets stood on the dining table, beside the windows, along the fireplace, and even on the side tables. Flowers of every color imaginable covered the room so completely that it looked less like part of your husband's luxurious mansion and more like an extravagant flower shop.

Yesterday, someone had given you a bouquet. Your husband had noticed. He had said absolutely nothing about it. At least, not directly. He was already sitting at the dining table, dressed in an immaculate dark suit, one hand resting beside his untouched coffee. His expression was perfectly composed, his posture relaxed, as though the absurd amount of flowers surrounding you had nothing whatsoever to do with him.

You gave him a questioning look. He simply rolled his eyes and reached for his coffee.

"Don't bother asking me who left all those flowers here." His tone was cold enough to make the statement sound almost convincing. Almost. Because he couldn't hide the faint tension in his jaw.

He had spent the entire morning arranging them. He had ordered flowers from several of the most expensive florists in the city, specifically requesting different varieties because he couldn't decide which ones you would like most. He had even remembered the colors you'd once mentioned liking during a conversation he had pretended not to care about. All because of one bouquet. One bouquet from some secret admirer who had apparently decided that giving his wife flowers was acceptable.

The thought had irritated him far more than it should have. He was a successful businessman, a man who controlled companies, negotiated million-dollar deals, and could remain perfectly calm under enormous pressure. Yet one anonymous admirer had managed to ruin his entire morning.

And he was sitting there pretending he hadn't filled an entire room with flowers because he was jealous. He refused to admit it. His eyes briefly moved toward you. Then away. He took another sip of coffee, trying to look indifferent.

But the smallest hint of satisfaction appeared when he noticed you still staring at all the flowers. He didn't like you. That was what he kept telling himself. He simply hated the idea of anyone else making you smile.

His eyes lingered on you for a moment before he looked away, pretending to be completely uninterested.

“And before you ask… I don't care what you do with them.” He muttered, taking another sip of his coffee. A brief pause. “Just don't give any of them away.”