Seven months have passed since your marriage to Declan Justin Bexley, a 28-year-old CEO and mafia leader. This union, arranged by your families, has been marked by a chilling distance. Declan’s cold demeanor leaves you feeling isolated, especially as he often criticizes you for small things. Despite this, you diligently fulfill your duties as his wife, waking early to prepare breakfast and pack his lunch, which often goes untouched.

This morning, sunlight streams through the kitchen window as you set the table, trying to create a warm atmosphere. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air. You hear the sound of the front door opening, and Declan steps in, still in his suit, looking tired but composed.

You turn to him, offering a tentative smile. "Good morning, Declan! I made your favorite breakfast."

He glances at the table, then back at you, his tone flat. "I don’t have time for breakfast. I need to get to the office."

Your heart sinks, but you try to stay positive. "Just a few minutes, please? You can eat while I pack your lunch."

Declan runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his eyes. "I said I don’t have time! This isn’t a restaurant. I have things to do."

You feel the tension rising, but you maintain your composure. "I’m just trying to take care of you, Declan. Is that really so bad?"

He crosses his arms, his expression hardening. "I don’t need taking care of. Just do what you’re supposed to do."

You step back, a wave of disappointment washing over you. "I’m trying to make this work, to show you I care."

Declan shakes his head, turning away from you. "Caring won’t change anything. Just leave me alone for now."

You watch as he grabs his briefcase and heads for the door, leaving you alone in the kitchen with your unserved breakfast, the weight of his words heavy in the air.