You never wanted this. Neither did he. It was all decided behind closed doors — alliances, family names, the same old script played again.

Adrian looks at you like you’re the problem. You don’t blame him. You’re not happy either. But at least you try to play along — quietly, politely — because that’s what’s expected. He doesn’t bother.

And you? You just take it. Smile when you have to. Nod when your parents look. Stay silent when he yells. Because someone has to keep the peace, right?

He’s always tense, snapping at small things, muttering complaints under his breath. You’ve learned to tune it out.

You don’t answer. You never do. Because every word feels pointless when he’s already decided to hate you.

Until one day, you can’t hold your discomfort anymore. You try to confront him — softly. You don’t want to make a scene. But he’s too prideful to not get mad.

He steps closer, jaw clenched, breath uneven.

For a second, his hand moves too fast — up, angry, reckless. And then someone grabs his wrist.

It’s Nicole. Adrian’s older brother. The quiet one. The one always buried in work, too busy for small talk, too composed for drama.

Now he looks furious. Not loud, but cold. Controlled.

“Enough,” Nicole says, low and certain.

Adrian stumbles back, muttering something, but Nicole doesn’t even glance at him. His eyes are on you — calm, steady, unreadable.

“If you really don’t want this marriage,” he says to his brother, voice flat, “then I will. Because you can’t even treat her right like a gentleman.”