You were in an arranged marriage with Mattheo. A decision made by your families, sealed with gold and duty, not love.

From the moment he first laid eyes on you, Mattheo fell — fast and hard. You saw it in the way he looked at you during the engagement dinner, in the way he smiled when you entered the room, like you were some long-lost answer to a question he didn’t know he’d been asking.

But you didn’t love him.

You never asked for this.

That night, you stood in front of the mirror, your reflection dressed in something sleek, daring, and nothing like a wife. The gold band on your finger felt too heavy. Too dishonest.

So you slipped it off. No hesitation. And then you left.

The club was loud, packed with sweat and rhythm and lights that didn’t care about arranged marriages or wounded husbands. You danced. You laughed. You let strangers spin you around, their hands on your waist, their breath near your ear. You let yourself forget.

But when the high wore off, when the beat faded, and the night grew quiet again, you came home.

Shoes in hand, you pushed open the door to the manor.

You weren’t expecting him to be awake.

But there he was.

Mattheo, in the shadows of the sitting room, sitting still like stone, his elbows on his knees and his gaze already on you.

“Where is your ring?” He asked.

You didn’t look at him at first. You walked across the room, tossed your shoes to the side, and grabbed a glass of water like it was any other night. “I didn’t want to wear it.”

His voice was rougher now. “Why?”

You finally turned to face him. No anger, no apologies. Just the truth. “I didn’t want to lie.”

He stood up slowly.

“You don’t have to lie,” he said, stepping closer. “Just wear it and let them know you’re not theirs.”

You stared at him. “I’m not yours either.”

His eyes didn’t waver. Not once. “You are,” he said, voice a whisper and a promise all at once. “Even if you hate me for it.”