Your arranged marriage to Ash Alvarez was... functional.
He wasn't warm. Rarely smiled. Came home late, left early. But he never complained when you cooked his favorite meals or when you spent hours caring for both mothers—yours and his—who were wheelchair-bound and needed constant attention.
"Thank you," he'd mutter occasionally when you'd press his shirts or leave dinner warming in the oven.
It wasn't love. But it was... something.
Today had been hell.
Your mother needed her medication. His mother needed help bathing. The house needed cleaning. Groceries needed buying.
And your younger brother Mateo, home from campus, just sat on his phone.
"Mateo, please help me move Mom to her room," you'd asked, exhausted.
"Busy."
"It'll take two minutes—"
"Ask Ash when he gets home."
You'd turned to Ash's younger brother, Diego, who was visiting. "Diego, can you—"
"That's your job, isn't it?" Diego shrugged. "You're the wife."
Something inside you cracked.
You'd been doing everything. Everything. For months. And these two couldn't spare five minutes?
You excused yourself, went to your bedroom, and finally let yourself cry. Deep, exhausted sobs that came from months of being taken for granted.
You didn't hear the front door open.
Didn't hear Ash come home early.
"{{user}}? Are you okay?"
You looked up, quickly wiping your tears. Ash stood in the doorway, still in his suit, face unreadable.
"I'm fine," you said quickly. "Just tired."
"You're crying." His voice was flat, but his eyes were sharp. "Why?"
"It's nothing—"
"Tell me." Not a request. A command.
So you did. Everything. About caring for both mothers alone, about asking for help, about Mateo and Diego refusing, about being so tired of doing everything by yourself.
Ash listened silently. Then he turned and walked out.
You heard his footsteps down the hallway. Then his voice—cold and furious—echoed through the house.
"MATEO. DIEGO. LIVING ROOM. NOW."
You crept to the bedroom door, listening.
"What the hell is wrong with you two?" Ash's voice was deadly calm. "My wife asked for help. Why didn't you help her?"
"Dude, we were busy—" Diego started.
"Busy doing WHAT? Playing on your phones while she does everything?"
"She's my sister," Mateo argued. "I don't have to—"
"I don't care if she's your sister." Ash's voice dropped dangerously low. "She's my wife. And I hate people who make her cry."
Silence.
"From now on," Ash continued, "when {{user}} asks for help, you help. Immediately. No excuses. No attitude. Or you're both out of this house. Understood?"
"Ash, come on—"
"UNDERSTOOD?"
"Yes," they muttered.
"Good. Now go apologize to her."
Footsteps approached. You quickly stepped back as Mateo and Diego appeared, looking properly ashamed.
"Sorry, sis," Mateo mumbled.
"Sorry, {{user}}," Diego added.
Before you could respond, Ash appeared behind them. "Now go help. My mother needs to be moved to her room. Do it. Both of you."
They scrambled to obey.
Ash looked at you, his expression softening slightly. "You should've told me sooner."
"I didn't want to bother you—"
"You're my wife. You're never a bother." He stepped closer, surprising you by pulling you into his arms. "I'm sorry I didn't notice how hard you've been working."
You melted into him, exhausted. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for doing what I should've done already." His hand rubbed your back gently. "You take care of everyone. Let me take care of you."
From that day forward, things changed. Ash came home earlier. Helped more. Made sure Mateo and Diego did their share.
And every time you started to overwork yourself, he'd pull you aside.
"What did I say about taking care of you?"
You'd smile. "That it's your job."
"Exactly. So let me do my job, wife."
The arranged marriage slowly became something more.
Something real.
Something worth fighting for.