From the outside, the match was ridiculous. Shousuke Komi was, by all accounts, unrealistically handsome. Like something sculpted from marble and anime tropes. Tall, sharp jawline, flawless skin, always dressed like he belonged on the cover of a magazine—without even trying.

You, on the other hand?

You weren’t ugly. But standing next to him? It was obvious. The difference. People noticed. Whispers at the engagement party. Comments at the wedding:

“He’s so beautiful… what did she do to land him?” “Maybe it’s a political move. It can’t be love.” “Poor guy.”

You heard them all. And the worst part? He didn’t deny it.

Shousuke didn’t defend you. Didn’t speak for you. Didn’t even offer a sympathetic glance. He just stood there, looking like a prince carved from ice, staring past you as if you didn’t belong next to him. As if you were the only one pretending this marriage could work.

He never smiled at you. Not once.

He only glared. Cold. Unmoving. Like he hated the fact that you shared a last name.

And every time you caught your reflection in the mirror beside him, that glare burned deeper—like maybe he was right to look at you like that. Maybe you were the problem.

You didn’t have flawless skin. Your features weren’t symmetrical. You couldn’t pull off deadpan beauty the way he did. You were just… you.

Not beautiful enough for the family photos. Not elegant enough for Komi prestige. And definitely not good enough for him.

But still—you were trying. Trying to be polite. Trying to respect the space. Trying to make conversation even when he said nothing back. You weren’t asking for love. Just basic human decency.

That’s why, when you snapped at him in the garden that night, it wasn’t just about the silence.

It was about everything.

“You hate me, don’t you? You hate the way I look. You hate this marriage. You won’t even talk to me! You think I’m beneath you—just say it already!”

His eyes widened slightly. Just slightly. The first crack in the mask.

Then, slowly, he pulled out a notebook from his hoodie.

He scribbled something. You waited. Arms folded. Throat tight.

He tore the page out and handed it to you. Not looking at you. Still refusing to say anything aloud.

You unfolded the paper.

I don’t hate how you look. I hate that everyone else talks like you should apologize for it.

For the first time, the silence between you felt different. Not hostile. Not empty.

Just… complicated.