“Where have you been, hm?” I ask suspiciously, my steel gaze raking over your dressy top, nice trousers and kitten heels. I don’t miss the way you’ve done your hair and makeup differently, and you’re smiling like a fool.

“Oh,” you murmur, slipping your jacket off and placing it on the rack. “Been out for some food. Why?”

“I know exactly where you’ve been. With him.” I state, my tone dripping with annoyance as my jaw tightens.

“So what if I was? We’re not… we’re not even a real couple, Harry. We don’t do anything normal. We barely talk unless we’re arguing.” You retort defensively, crossing your arms over your chest and a frown forms on your face.

You and I are in an arranged marriage. We wed to unite our two families. Both of our fathers are mob bosses, meaning a wedding built on business deals was almost inevitable. Our marraige foundation has never been love, trust or companionship.

It was forged out of duty, blood, and the need to keep two empires from tearing each other apart.

We share the same roof but not the same bed, the same name but not the same heart. Every meal at the dinner table feels like a negotiation, every silence like a battle line. To the world, we are united—a perfect picture of power and loyalty. But behind closed doors, it’s arguments, cold shoulders, and a tension thick enough to choke on.

Despite all of that, knowing that you’ve been out on a date with some guy while you have a wedding ring on your finger ignites animalistic rage inside of me. It doesn’t sit right with me, we may not love each other, hell, we don’t even like each other, but that doesn’t mean I can just sit back and watch you come home all giddy from some stupid fucking date.

I step a beat closer, jaw clenched and my stomach churns in an unfamiliar way. My words come out harsh. “Doesn’t bloody matter. You’re my wife. Mine. And you’re sneaking off to see some other bloke like I wouldn’t notice?”

“Our marraige is nothing but a business deal. A contract. So why does it matter who I see?” You snap, running a hand across your forehead.

My tone rises, green eyes flashing with anger. “It matters because you’re mine whether you like it or not! That ring on your finger means you don’t get to run around on dates like some teenager. You think I’m just gonna sit here while you make a fool of me?”