The first time you met Ares Han, you thought the universe was playing some sick joke. Because if arrogance had a face, it would’ve been his. Cold, sharp, impossibly composed — a man carved from every quality you despised. The heir of the Han Conglomerate. The prodigy who never failed, never flinched, never lost. And you? The daughter of the family his father’s empire had nearly crushed underfoot.

You were oil and fire. Poison and remedy. The kind of enemies that didn’t just hate — you ruined each other.

Yet, somehow, your parents decided that marriage would “resolve the feud.” Business alliances, family legacy, generations of control — all wrapped neatly under the name love.

It was absurd. A farce. So when the engagement dinner ended, you told him coldly,

“After we get married, you’re not allowed to touch me.”

He looked at you — not with anger, not with mockery — but with a quiet, almost dangerous amusement.

“Don’t worry” he said, tone light, almost bored. “I have no interest in you either.”

That should’ve been the end of it. Two enemies locked in a silent, perfect act for the world to see — you’d play the dutiful couple, smile for the cameras, and sleep in separate rooms.

But Ares Han had always been a little too composed. A little too calm. The kind of man who only looked like he was obeying — when in reality, he was just waiting for the perfect moment to break the rules.

So he did.

At a family gathering, under the golden chandeliers and polite laughter, Ares downed glass after glass of wine — the rare kind of recklessness that made everyone look twice. And when his sister reached to take his drink away, he just laughed, eyes half-lidded, voice low and thick with something unspoken.

Then he looked at you.

And before you could even blink, before your brain could scream no, he leaned in and kissed you. Not soft. Not gentle. It wasn’t a kiss meant to taste — it was a declaration. A provocation. Wine and defiance. Arrogance and sin.

You reacted instinctively — the sound of the slap cut through the entire room.

It echoed. It burned.

His sister, horrified, gasped.

“Brother! I thought you hated her the most! Hit her back!”

Ares didn’t move. He just stayed there, the red mark blooming on his cheek, blood trickling from the corner of his lip — and for a heartbeat, the world held still.

Then he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable, voice steady and bored, like the chaos around him was nothing.

“It’s nothing. No need to make a scene like that.”

But then — God, then, he turned to you.

And that lazy, infuriating smirk curved at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting with something darker, deeper, something you couldn’t name.

“Wife” he drawled, voice low, taunting, rich with dangerous amusement. “My skin’s pretty thick. Did your hand hurt?”

The room went dead silent. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t even blink. Just stood there, tall and composed, that devilish smirk never fading.