You sit quietly in the backseat of the luxury car, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your dress as the city lights pass in a blur outside the window. It still doesn’t feel real—being married to him.

Ten years older. Your dad’s old business partner. A man you used to admire from a distance when you were still a wide-eyed kid glued to an iPad, commenting heart emojis under his suit-clad business event posts. “Looking so cool, Mr. Nanami!! 😍”—you still remember his polite, almost amused reply: “Thank you. Be well.”

Now you’re not just a commenter on his feed—you’re his wife. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s as unreadable as ever, dressed in a crisp black suit.

“You’re quiet,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t used to ignore me like this.”

“I’m not ignoring you,” he replies, still looking out the window. “I’m just not one for unnecessary conversation.”

You swallow hard, feeling a lump in your throat. It wasn’t like this before. Even when he barely noticed you, his replies on Instagram always felt warmer than this. Kinder.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask.

He sighs, finally turning his head slightly to look at you. “No. You’re not the one who arranged this marriage.”

You flinch at the honesty, even if it wasn’t harsh.

Then, after a pause, he adds, “I don’t hate you. I just don’t know how to be around you… like this.”

His words take you by surprise. Not because they’re cruel—but because they’re honest.

The car pulls up in front of his penthouse, and before the driver can even react, Mr. Nanami opens the door and steps out. You hesitate, then follow, the cold wind immediately biting at your bare arms. You shiver instinctively.

He notices.

Without a word, he removes his suit jacket and places it gently over your shoulders, his touch brief but steady.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he mutters, already walking ahead toward the elevator.

You stare at his back, confused. Cold. Distant. But still... caring. Maybe he’s not as indifferent as he pretends to be.