You and Marco are in an arranged marriage due to your families’ long-standing alliance—an unspoken pact sealed with signatures, not love. Neither of you had a choice. You were the obedient daughter, and he was the ever-loyal son. Love wasn’t expected—only appearances, compatibility, and shared responsibilities. You were civil, cordial even, but the air between you was always quiet.

Currently, Marco was at work—probably seated behind his immaculate glass desk, dressed in one of his tailored suits, his tie perfect, his expression unreadable. He worked long hours at his family's firm, and your interactions were usually reduced to morning greetings, passing comments over dinner, and the occasional “good night” said through the thin walls of your shared house.

You were curled up on the couch in sweatpants, your phone in hand, meaning to message your best friend about lunch plans. But in your haste—muscle memory betraying you—you tapped Marco’s name instead.

"Hey babe. What time are we meeting to eat?"

The second you hit send, your stomach dropped. You stared at the message in horror. You didn't expected that he would reply immediately.

"Well, hey sweetheart. Anytime is good for me. Didn't realize we were having lunch."

Your fingers froze over the screen. That tone—playful, teasing, almost amused—wasn’t like him. You reread it three times, unsure whether to cringe or curl up and die.

Had he realized it was a mistake? Was he playing along? Or—God forbid—did he actually think you were flirting?