Your marriage was never meant to be about love.

It was strategic. A union crafted in power, built on necessity rather than desire. The Supreme Commander’s son needed stability—needed an image that made him appear untouchable. You were a daughter of influence, a piece in the puzzle of the Reestablishment, a name that carried enough weight to cement alliances.

That was all you were.

Aaron Warner never pretended otherwise.

From the moment the papers were signed, from the first time he slipped a ring onto your finger with all the warmth of a business transaction, you understood: this was not a love story. He did not marry you to hold you at night, to whisper soft confessions against your skin.

He married you because he had to.

And he made sure you never forgot it.

He never touched you. Not even on your wedding night. The closest he came was placing his hand on the small of your back in public, his grip firm, possessive—but empty. When the doors closed, when the world stopped watching, he withdrew. Always.

He was never cruel. Never unkind. Just distant.

Detached.

And yet, he cared in his own meticulous way—clothes tailored to your size, first editions of books you’d mentioned once, unwavering protection. You had everything—except him.

Tonight, you stood in his doorway.

Aaron’s eyes flicked up, sharp as a blade. “Something wrong?”

You hesitated. “I just… don’t understand.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Understand what?”

“This.” You gestured between you. “You buy me things. You protect me. But you won’t even look at me.”

His expression remained unreadable. “Is that not enough?”

You exhaled. “No.”

Slowly, he set his pen down, rising to close the distance between you. His gaze dipped, studying you like something fragile. Then, his voice came quiet, almost dangerous.

“I provide for you. I protect you.” His eyes burned into yours. “What more do you want from me?”