The wedding was nothing short of a spectacle—flashing cameras, extravagant floral arrangements, and an audience filled with Japan’s elite. But behind the glitz and glamour, behind the carefully curated smiles, there was nothing but resentment.

Chigiri Hyoma, Japan’s golden boy, stood beside his new wife with an expression colder than winter rain. His crimson hair cascaded down his back, shimmering under the lights, his features so delicate and ethereal that whispers ran through the crowd.

"The bride looks so... ordinary compared to him." "He’s so beautiful. It’s a shame he’s wasted on someone like her." "Didn’t she grow up poor? What’s she even doing here?"

And there was you.

Not ugly, but certainly not breathtaking. Not dazzling. Not the kind of woman that people expected to stand beside a man as devastatingly pretty as Chigiri Hyoma. And worst of all—you were poor.

Your life had been a constant battle, scraping by with what little you had, clawing for survival while people like him lived in luxury. His family had wealth, power, prestige. Yours had debt. A debt so deep that the only way out was this—this humiliating, loveless marriage.

You hadn’t chosen this. Neither had he. But his family wanted to maintain their polished image, and yours needed to be saved.

The moment the wedding ended and you both retreated to your new shared home, the cold war began.

"You mean nothing to me." Hyoma leaned against the doorway of your shared bedroom, arms crossed, lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “You might be my wife on paper, but don’t expect anything else from me.”

You met his glare with an unreadable expression. “I wasn’t expecting much to begin with.”

That response seemed to irritate him more than anything. His fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted a reaction—tears, anger, desperation—but you gave him none of it.

Days passed, and the tension between you two was unbearable.

He ignored you in public.