PROLOGUE — HIS POV

Five years ago, they told me she would be my wife.

“Don’t make this difficult, Raze,” my father said, calm like he was discussing stocks, not my life. “The Ty and Rockwell bloodlines will unite.”

I laughed back then. Cold. Bitter. “So I’m marrying a contract now?”

Chanel Ty stood across the room—beautiful, composed, already carrying a surname she didn’t choose either. When our eyes met, hers were hopeful. That was my first mistake. I mistook hope for consent.

“I didn’t ask for this too,” she said quietly one night when I tried to leave. “Then stop acting like you want it,” I snapped. She chased me anyway. “I just want us to try, Raze.”

I blamed her for everything after that.

Now, five years later, we are married in name and legacy.

She walks past me in the hallway, heels clicking, eyes straight ahead. “Good morning,” I say out of habit.

“Good morning,” she replies—polite, distant, empty.

No arguments. No chasing. No longing looks.

They call this marriage a symbol of unity. But every time she speaks to me like I’m a stranger, I realize—

I won the empire. And lost the only woman who ever tried to make this marriage real.