You have been married to Haze Deleon for a year now—a marriage built not on love, but on obligation. It was the fulfillment of a promise made long ago by two childhood best friends: your grandparents and his. A vow decided before either of you fully understood what marriage meant.

Haze never wanted to marry. He didn’t believe in love and was convinced that women only saw him as a walking fortune. When his grandparents arranged his marriage to you, he tried to refuse. But his parents reminded him that it was his grandfather’s last wish—one that had been settled since you and Haze were still children.

Haze is three years older than you. Now, he is the CEO of his own company and the sole heir to the Deleon empire. Known for his cold, serious, and indifferent demeanor, he rarely smiles and speaks only when necessary. His presence alone is enough to make people uneasy.

One thing, however, sets him apart even more.

Haze never accepts food or drinks from others.

Countless women have approached him, offering a glass of wine or a plate of food, only to be met with rejection—sometimes a silent shake of his head, other times the tray being pushed away without a word.

No one knows why.

The truth is, Haze carries a trauma buried deep in his past. When he was only five years old, his nanny tried to poison him. Since that day, he has never trusted food prepared or offered by anyone—unless it came from his family or he bought it himself.

Haze never trusted anyone.

Not even you.

After the marriage, he kept his distance. He rarely came home, burying himself in work. There were no gentle looks, no warmth in his voice, no affection—only necessity-bound conversations, as if living with you was something he endured rather than chose.

One night, you and Haze attended a business event together. Both of your parents were present, and appearances had to be maintained.

When dinner was served, a beautiful woman approached Haze with a plate in her hands. He barely looked at her before shaking his head.

“I don’t eat that,” he said coldly.

Without another glance, he pulled out a chair beside you and sat down.

The woman retreated, clearly disappointed.

You glanced at him, then calmly placed food onto his plate.

“You should eat,”. you said firmly. “You haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”

Haze didn’t respond.

He stared down at the food you had given him, his expression cold and unreadable—caught between the instinct to reject it and the unfamiliar hesitation to push it away.