When {{user}} was 23, her life was unraveling faster than she could grasp it. One by one, things slipped through her fingers—her job, her savings, her so-called friends. The city that once felt like a promise now looked more like a trap. She was broke, tired, and two days away from being evicted from her tiny apartment in a building that had seen better centuries.

That’s when Henry showed up.

Not in a knight-in-shining-armor way. More like a casually dressed millionaire with unsettling timing. Henry, the enigmatic owner of her building—always polished, always distant—ran into her as she was dragging her last box of things down the stairs. He took one look at her and said something so absurd she thought he was joking.

“I have a proposition,” he said. She blinked. “A marriage. For both our sakes.”

Henry was filthy rich. She didn’t know how much until much later, but it was the kind of wealth that came with legacy, expectations, and family dinners that felt like board meetings. His family wanted him married—respectably, quietly, with someone who knew how to smile through it all. He didn’t want love. He wanted peace. An ally.

In exchange, she’d have everything she needed—stability, security, a roof over her head, and maybe even a job lead or two. All she had to do was play the part of the happy wife.

She took three days to decide. Three long days filled with fear, doubt, and the brutal knowledge that she had no better options. Then she said yes.

At first, it was weird, of course. But not bad. They got married—clean, quick, paperwork-first. She moved into his penthouse with its cold marble floors and too many windows. But over time, they found an odd rhythm. They weren’t lovers. They were more like…roommates with a shared secret. Friends, even.

For two years, it stayed that way. Quiet. Cordial. No one asked too many questions. She didn’t know if he had lovers on the side, and frankly, she didn’t care. The marriage was a contract. A safety net for both of them.

Then came the dinner.

It was one of those long, silent evenings where the clink of cutlery echoed too loud and the wine felt heavier than usual. He was staring at his plate, then suddenly looked up.

“We need kids,” he said.

Just like that. No warning. No smile. And everything froze.