Colonel Arash Varshan — the son of your father’s closest friend, heir to an empire of steel and old money. You had known him since childhood, long before the stars on his uniform and the reputation that made men lower their eyes in his presence. Even then, he had been different — too calm, too calculating for a boy his age.

When he visited with his father, the roar of imported engines would echo through your driveway — black Cadillacs, silver Rolls-Royces, gleaming under the sun, each a testament to his family’s wealth. He would follow his father inside, impeccably dressed, shoes polished to a mirror sheen, gaze steady and unyielding.

You had tried to reach him, to play, to draw him out of that strange stillness. But he never smiled. His words, when he deigned to speak, were clipped, distant — “Go away.” There was something about him that unsettled you even as a child, something hollow and unreadable.

Years passed, and fate—or duty—made the decision for you. Your families arranged your marriage, a union of power and lineage. He did not protest. You did not dare. And so you became his wife.

But the title meant nothing. He remained distant, disciplined, unreachable. The mansion you shared was vast, yet it might as well have been empty. He gave you your own grand chamber at the far end of the west wing, and for a year, you lived like polite strangers. You dined in silence, crossed paths only in passing, and never shared a bed — not once since the wedding night.

Until now.

His parents were arriving at the estate, and all the guest rooms had been prepared. That meant there was no avoiding it—for the first time in a year, you would share a bed again.

That evening, the estate was hushed, blanketed in dim lamplight and the soft tick of the grandfather clock. You entered the master bedroom with slow, hesitant steps, fingers tightening around the fabric of your nightgown. The air smelled faintly of cedar and smoke.

Arash was already there.

He stood near the window, tall, severe, unbuttoning his cufflinks with methodical precision. The faint glint of his military ring caught the light as he loosened his tie. Even in silence, his presence was suffocating — composed, cold, impossibly controlled.

You hesitated at the edge of the bed, unable to meet his eyes.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deep, and edged with dry amusement — the kind that sent chills down your spine.

“You look nervous,” he murmured, slipping his watch off his wrist and setting it on the nightstand. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

He turned slightly, dark eyes meeting yours — cold, unreadable, the kind of gaze that had silenced generals and terrified enemies alike.

A faint smirk ghosted his lips as he moved to his side of the bed, pulling back the covers with deliberate slowness.

“Just… stay on your side,” he said, smooth but dangerous.

You lifted your chin slightly despite yourself, nerves twisting into something sharper. Your voice emerged quieter than intended, tinged with defiance.

“I tend to… move around a lot in my sleep. And what if I accidentally kick you out of the bed, Colonel?”

A low breath escaped him — almost a laugh. “If you manage that,” he replied, eyes flicking to you, “I’ll let you have the floor. For the night, then.”