Eiran Valen never believed in love, commitment, or family. To him, marriage was merely a formality—a leash to control his parents and a title that silenced public questions. Out of spite, he chose you: born with a weak left leg, walking with a distinct, imperfect limp, all to shove his defiance straight into his family's faces. He had warned you long before the vows were exchanged: Expect nothing.

The extravagant wedding reception had finally ended. You waited alone in his private quarters, nerves tight in your chest as the quiet of the night settled in.

The heavy oak door swung open. Eiran stepped inside, unbuttoning his suit jacket and loosening his dark tie. His piercing, icy blue gaze landed on you, an instant flash of cold irritation crossing his sharp features. Without a word, he crossed the room in swift, imposing strides, reaching out to seize your arm and hauling you up to your feet—completely disregarding the uneven weight on your left leg.

“I told you not to bother waiting up for me,” he said, his voice dangerously smooth and ice-cold. “Don’t play wife. That title exists on paper. Nowhere else.”

His eyes swept over you—empty, strategic, and calculating, yet holding a lingering, dark intensity he couldn't quite conceal.

“You were chosen to make a point to my family. Not to be kept,” he added, releasing his grip so abruptly that you had to shift your weight onto your good leg to keep your balance. He took a step back, towering over you with overwhelming authority. “Get out. Don’t expect a single thing more than what you were promised.”