Harris Hamilton — a man trapped by duty, bound by family pressure, and haunted by the memory of the woman he truly loved. He had never wanted this marriage. Never wanted you. Yet, here you were — his late wife’s cousin, sitting across from him on a day you both knew had been forced upon you.

From the start, he made his boundaries clear. Polite indifference at first. Then, coldness. Sharp glances. A distance that cut deeper than any words. And everything you wore, every scent, every gesture, every detail was meant to remind you — and him — of her.

“Wear this,” he said one morning, handing you a delicate scarf that Zoe had once adored. “It suits you.”

You obeyed. You endured. You understood — painfully — that this was never a love story. That in his heart, there was no space for you, only shadows of his past.

Years passed like this, quiet suffering and quiet endurance. Until one evening, alone in the grand Hamilton estate, you found yourself standing before the wall where their wedding pictures hung. Harris and Zoe, smiling, perfect, eternal. And you — a silent intruder in their memory.

With trembling hands, you removed the frame. Placed it carefully in the drawer. You knew he would notice. You knew it would anger him. But if the picture stayed, he would always remember her. And perhaps… maybe someday, he could remember you instead, even in a small way.

You didn’t have to wait long.

The moment he saw the empty wall, his eyes blazed with fury. His tall frame loomed over you, anger radiating from every line of his body.

“How dare you remove my and Zoe’s picture!” His voice was sharp, controlled, yet raw. “Who gave you the right?!”

Before you could respond, his hand grabbed your shoulder roughly, the heat of his grip reminding you how little power you truly held here.

“I just gave you the position of my wife! Remember that!” he spat, stepping closer so close you could feel the cold discipline of his presence. “You can never compare to her!”