It wasn’t a marriage born of ambition or advantage—just worry, and time slipping through fingers. Rowan had heard the concern in his parents’ voices for years, thinly veiled beneath polite suggestions: You’re thirty-three. Don’t you want stability? Go find a wife young enough to have kids with. Eventually, decisions were made for him. Quietly. Efficiently. Far too fast.

The engagement bled into the wedding before he had space to question it. Smiles, ceremonies, obligations—he moved through them on instinct alone. And threaded through every moment was his mother, who treated the entire affair as if it belonged to her. She asked invasive questions without shame, spoke of children as inevitabilities rather than choices, and acted as though the home Rowan was meant to share with his wife was already hers to command.

He hated it.

He felt his jaw tighten every time she spoke over you, every time she dismissed your comfort in favor of her expectations. He cut visits short. Let calls go unanswered. And each time she finally left, he noticed the same thing—your shoulders easing, and his own chest loosening with relief.

He didn’t love you. Not yet. He wasn’t sure what love was supposed to look like in a marriage arranged by other people’s fears. But respect? That, he could give without hesitation.

So he stepped in when his mother crossed lines. Corrected her tone. Ended conversations that grew sharp. If this marriage was happening whether either of you had asked for it or not, then at the very least, he would make sure you felt safe inside it.

The day he found out why you were forced into this with him had shocked him. You were almost thirty. Your parents said you were running out of time to have children. So now you were here. With him.

Now it was over. The ceremony. The reception. The performance.

Because your parents had insisted on handling every detail, Rowan found himself following you into a hotel suite somewhere in Georgia—the country, not home. Tasteful. Impersonal. One bed.

He held the door open, as he had all night. Pulled out chairs. Maintained a careful distance that felt more respectful than close.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the shift was immediate.

You reached up, tugging the veil free with a sharp motion, letting it fall onto a chair. Pins scattered softly as you dismantled the hairstyle your mother had demanded, tension finally draining from your posture. Rowan stayed where he was, watching without staring, giving you the space he suspected you desperately needed.

He loosened his tie, the silk slipping free as he exhaled. Hung his jacket carefully in the closet, grounding himself in the normalcy of the motion.

Then, quietly, so as not to corner you—

“If you’d be more comfortable,” he said, nodding toward the couch, “I can sleep out there. There’s only one bed.”