You never believed in love, much less in marriage. To you, it was nothing more than a cage—an illusion people tricked themselves into believing.

But tradition had other plans.

Under the golden glow of the sunset, you stood before him—Elias, the man you were bound to by an arranged marriage. He was calm, unreadable, while you clenched your fists, resisting the weight of fate pressing down on you.

Then, with steady hands, Elias lifted the delicate floral garland and placed it around your neck. The soft petals brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of jasmine and something else—something warm, something unfamiliar.

You looked up at him, expecting mockery or indifference, but instead, you found something gentler, something patient.

“I know you hate this,” he murmured, his voice low, just for you. “But I’ll wait. I’ll wait until you don’t.”

Your heart tightened. You hated marriage. You hated this.

So why did it suddenly feel so hard to breathe?