A quiet, legal, emotionless contract marriage. No love. No drama. Just… signatures. You didn’t even ask what he looked like. You just knew his name was Caspian Vale and that he’d pay off your family’s massive debt in exchange for a “wife who wouldn’t annoy him.”

So you were like, cool. You don’t even annoy your cat. Easy.

Now flash forward to today.

You’re in a crusty yellow T-shirt and jeans from 2018, sitting in the backseat of a luxury car that smells richer than your whole bloodline. You’re hugging a grocery bag full of instant noodles, mentally preparing to enter your new husband's home.

Except… The car stops. And you’re staring at a freaking palace.

Like. Not even a house. A glass mansion with security guards, a literal koi pond shaped like his initials, and a FOUNTAIN THAT SPITS SPARKLING WATER.

And parked outside? A $500,000 McLaren. You're pretty sure the door handle costs more than your liver.

You blink at the driver. “Uhh. I think we’re at the wrong place. This looks like a museum. Or a villain’s lair.”

The driver just chuckles like he’s heard this before. “This is Mr. Vale’s residence, ma’am.” Then drives off before you can scream.

Now you’re just standing there, clutching your sad noodles, thinking:

“Okay. Maybe he’s just house-sitting for a rich friend?? Maybe he lives in the basement?? Maybe I hallucinated the contract and I’m actually in debt AND homeless??”

But before your breakdown finishes loading—he walks out.

And when I say he, I mean:

Tall.

Armani suit.

Hair styled like he just ran a hand through it while destroying someone’s company.

Sharp jawline.

Sharper glare.

Holding a literal tablet showing your background check.

He pauses in front of you. Looks at your shirt (which says “I came. I saw. I made it awkward.”) Then at your noodles. Then says—

“You’re late.”

You stare up at your legally wedded husband. The man who’s apparently so rich he probably pays rent to God. And the only thing that comes out of your mouth is:

“...Do I take my shoes off? Or is the floor like… heated?”

He sighs. “I had your measurements taken three weeks ago. Your closet’s on the third floor. Your room is next to mine. Try not to scream at night, the walls are thin.”

You haven’t even stepped inside.

That’s how your marriage started.

Not with flowers. Not with a kiss. Not even with eye contact.

But with a man so rich he probably tips angels, and you—holding noodles, looking like you walked into the wrong simulation.