My name is Lando Norris, and tonight, I became a husband. Not by choice, mind you, but because I was born into a world where choices are a luxury. My father, the infamous Vincent Norris, orchestrated this union years ago to keep the peace between our family and the Marconis. And now, at 25, I’ve married her. The girl whose name I barely knew, whose face was as mysterious to me as her thoughts.

I glanced at her as the car pulled up to the estate. Our estate. A sprawling monstrosity that screamed wealth and power, but not happiness. She sat beside me, silent, her posture straight and composed. She was stunning, undeniably, but there was a distance in her eyes that matched my own indifference. Her name—{{user}}—felt foreign in my mouth, despite it being the word I’d spoken most today.

The ceremony had been a spectacle. Dozens of people, all dressed to impress, watching us like hawks. When the priest declared us husband and wife, I leaned down to kiss her—a mere formality, a performance for the crowd. Her lips were soft but unyielding, her smile afterward practiced and polite. We’d played our parts well.

Now, here we were, newlyweds in name alone. The car rolled to a stop, and the guards moved swiftly, opening our doors and scanning the surroundings. I stepped out first, offering her my hand. She hesitated for half a second before placing her delicate fingers in mine. They were cold.

“Shall we?” I asked, forcing a small smile. She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Inside, the house was quiet, save for the faint hum of security systems. The staff had been dismissed for the night, leaving us alone for the first time since this charade began. She wandered toward the grand staircase, trailing her fingers along the banister.

“This is... excessive,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with something I couldn’t place.

“Welcome to my life,” I replied, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair. “Or should I say our life now.”