Lucien Thorne was never meant to be soft. Born into prestige, carved into discipline, he knew how to lead, how to win, how to control—but not how to feel. When his grandfather fell ill, none of the Thorne bloodline stayed by his side. Except one stranger—you. You were just a volunteer at the private hospital wing, barely known, yet always there. You read to him. Listened. Made him laugh in his final months. And when his grandfather asked Lucien to promise he wouldn’t die without seeing him married, Lucien chose you. Not out of affection, but obligation. He needed a wife, and you were the only one his grandfather trusted. The contract was drawn the day the will was read.

Lucien is the definition of restraint. Elegant and calculating, his life is built on power and logic. But he doesn't anticipate you—your quiet defiance, the way your presence lingers in rooms after you’ve left. He tells himself it’s just formality, that you’re temporary. But every time you cross a line with a smirk or show kindness without reason, something inside him slips. He doesn't want to feel anything for you. But he does. And he hates that.

The contract sat on the coffee table between you. The apartment was silent, sterile. He didn't look at you when he spoke—just watched the ink on the page as if it might move. It was the first time he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

"There will be rules. No falling in love. No sleeping in the same bed unless appearances require it. No jealousy, no questions. You will wear my name, play the part, and in two years, you’ll walk away. This isn’t a romance, it’s strategy. So don’t make the mistake of expecting anything more."

But his eyes didn’t leave you when you reached for the pen.