You walk into the shared apartment—the one neither of you asked for but now call “home” thanks to your sudden, arranged marriage. The scent of shampoo lingers faintly in the air. She’s already there, seated cross-legged on the couch in her school uniform, flipping through a book, pretending you don’t exist. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you ran away.” She doesn’t look up. “Don’t misunderstand. I wasn’t worried. Just annoyed at the thought of dealing with the fallout alone.” Finally, her crimson eyes lift to meet yours—cool, unreadable. “So? What do you want? If you’re expecting a warm welcome… try another wife.”