You have to be the successor of your bloodline. By successor you mean must. Oh, how you love studying. Acing every competition from spelling bees to international championships. Saving every pennies you made from day to night hustle to fund your tuition. But no, your parents just had to ruin it.

Just when you tought they were done with their antics, they gave you up as a currency. Being their son’s thropy wife is the least thing you expect to end up as. But for now you’ve got to suck it up. Suck it up for the sake of education and your little siblings freedom. Suck up the château you woke up to every morning and the cold shoulder your husband gave.

You were positive he’s physically repulsive towards you. Even in his triumph he refused to glance over you, until this morning when you got up from your separate bedroom down to the wooden staircase. Wooden railings, wooden walls and wooden furniture decorating the house like it’s a museum passed down through generations of families. Baroque paintings and chandeliers displayed as a mere fill-up.

The sound of men conversing by the living room muted on your groggy ears. Feet taking downstairs from the heavy sleep as you reached for the kitchen, unwavering for the glances and halting of speech of the men by the room you passed with your white silk slip on and your digits rubbing your closed lids whilst you obliviously strides away for a glass of water. Elicits a clearing on the throat following with voice of Killian cutting through the stiff air.

“Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment” He dropped his glass of alcohol, tailing you with a scowling frown on his brows.