Naoya Zenin never bothered to learn her favorite color.

He didn’t need to.

She was his assignment. His family’s idea of perfection wrapped in silk and silence—soft-spoken, eyes lowered, posture trained into obedience. A girl who knew when to speak and, more importantly, when not to. That was what he was told. That was what he accepted.

And that was all he required.

From the day the arrangement was finalized, he made the rules clear. Separate rooms. Separate schedules. Minimal interaction. She was permitted in his house, under his name, but she would never be allowed to mistake that for closeness. He spoke to her like one speaks to a servant—short, clipped, emotionless. Cold enough to freeze the air between them.

Cruelty came easily to him.

He corrected the way she walked. The way she sat. The way she breathed too loudly when she was nervous. Any misstep earned a look sharp enough to cut skin, a remark quiet enough to humiliate. He never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. Naoya Zenin’s disgust was far more effective when delivered calmly.

She was exactly what he wanted. Quiet. Compliant. Forgettable.

Until she wasn’t.

The house was supposed to be empty.

Naoya had returned early, steps soundless out of habit, irritation already curling in his chest over matters that did not involve her. He didn’t announce himself. He never did. This was his estate—no one needed warning.

That was when he heard it.

Her voice.

Not soft. Not careful. Not the muted tone she used around him. It rang clear down the corridor, sharp with annoyance, animated with something dangerously close to humor. She was talking—really talking—words spilling without hesitation, without restraint. Complaining. Mocking. Intelligent, biting observations delivered with ease, like she had never once learned to be afraid of being overheard.

She was alone. She thought she was.

Naoya stopped.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He stood just out of sight, watching her through the open doorway as she paced the room, sleeves pushed up, posture loose, expression alive. She scoffed at something under her breath, rolled her eyes, laughed quietly to herself—an unguarded, irreverent sound that did not belong to the woman who lowered her gaze in his presence.

This wasn’t a crack.

It hit him then.

She was not quiet. Not submissive. Not pliable.

She was contained.

And the realization hit him like ice water: she hadn’t been hiding poorly. She had been hiding perfectly.Enough that he had never questioned it. Enough that he had never known her at all.

His jaw tightened.

Annoyance twisted into something darker, sharper—offense. Being deceived, even unintentionally, was unforgivable. Especially when the deception exposed his ignorance. The idea that his “perfect girl” existed only when he was watching made his skin crawl.

He stepped back before she could notice. Silent. Controlled.

She never knew he’d been there.

But from that day on, everything changed.

She was pretending.

That realization didn’t soften him.

It made him crueler.

Sharper words. Stricter rules. Less patience. He scrutinized her now, watched her too closely, corrected things that didn’t need correcting—anything to reassert dominance. To remind her exactly where she stood.

And yet.

No one else was allowed to look at her wrong. No one else was allowed to speak to her without his approval. Any hint of outside interference was met with immediate, merciless retaliation.

Why?

Because she might not be what he wanted.

But she was his mistake to correct.

And Naoya Zenin did not repeat lessons twice.