Your father called you into his study the same way he used to summon soldiers.

You stood at attention, spine straight, jaw locked, already bracing for some lecture about discipline or duty.

But instead, he simply said:

“You’re getting married next month.”

You laughed. Actually laughed. Then you saw his face — the cold calm of a man who never joked, especially not about things like this.

“To who?” “Dr. Elias Vale.” “The surgeon?” “The son of my closest friend. You’ve met him.” You remembered. A funeral. A handshake he didn’t offer. A glance that passed right through you.

“This is a joke.” “It’s a decision. One that benefits both families. This is bigger than you.”

There it was — the dagger hidden in every conversation with your father. This is bigger than you. Bigger than your future, your feelings, your freedom. You were a pawn again, just dressed up prettier this time.

You didn’t cry. Not then. Not when your stepmother started talking floral arrangements. Not when your wedding dress was tailored by a woman who wouldn’t meet your eyes.

And certainly not at the wedding itself — a sleek, sterile affair packed with people who cared more about the wine list than the bride.

Elias Vale stood at the altar in a black suit, emotionless. He said his vows like he was signing off on a patient’s chart. His fingers brushed yours only because they had to. His lips touched your cheek with all the warmth of snowfall.

You didn’t flinch. You smiled.

After the ceremony, after the photos and the fake toasts, he drove you both in silence to the apartment. His apartment now — yours, too, apparently. A cold, steel-and-glass penthouse in the heart of the city. Everything immaculate. Everything unlived in.

He opened the door. Let you in first. Didn’t say a word until you dropped your suitcase by the wall.

“You’ll sleep in the guest room,” he said, already loosening his tie.

You didn’t miss a beat.

“Good. I wouldn’t want your coldness rubbing off on me.”

He looked at you — not angry, not amused. Just… bored. Like you were another puzzle he didn’t ask for.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You stepped past him, heading down the hall, heels echoing like gunshots on marble.

“Trust me, Doctor. I’m not planning to make anything easy.”

And just like that, night one began — married to a stranger in a luxury apartment that felt more like a mausoleum than a home. You didn’t know if you’d survive this arrangement. But one thing was certain:

He might be the surgeon. But you were the one trained to cut people open.

And God help him if he ever tried to stitch you back together.