The first time Bodhi saw her, he knew she didn’t belong in his world.

She sat across the long dining table, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap—composed, but not unaffected. He could see it in the way her fingers trembled slightly against the silk of her dress, the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed.

She was nervous. Of him.

Good.

She had every reason to be.

Our marriage wasn’t about love. It was about power, about securing alliances, ensuring that our families remained untouchable. A necessary deal in a world where trust was worth less than blood spilled on the pavement.

he expected resentment. He expected quiet defiance or tearful acceptance. Instead, she looked him in the eye when we were introduced, and I saw something he hadn’t anticipated.

Strength.

She was afraid, but she didn’t let it own her.

The wedding was a spectacle—white roses, candlelight, and vows that meant nothing. He slipped the ring onto her finger, sealing our fate with a kiss that barely brushed her lips. She was tense beneath his touch, and he told himself it didn’t matter.

That night, he sat in our shared bedroom, whiskey in hand, watching her from across the room. She looked small against the massive bed, but she didn’t shrink away. Didn’t beg or plead.

"I won’t touch you unless you want me to," He told her. "This marriage is business, nothing more."

She nodded once, then turned away, slipping under the covers as if he wasn’t standing there, as if she wasn’t him wife now.

It should have been easy to keep his distance. He had spent his life mastering control, cutting off every weakness before it could form. But with her, something shifted.

She was different from the women he'd known—those who clung, who schemed, who whispered pretty lies in his ear. She didn’t try to win him over, didn’t seek his approval. She simply existed in his space, quietly carving out a place for herself in his life.

And Bodhi let her.