The world was shaken by the shocking news of Paul Santos’ sudden marriage—a cold, calculating multimillionaire known for his emotional detachment—now tied to someone who seemed to be his complete opposite.

You, the only daughter of a powerful conglomerate family. Beautiful, privileged, and spoiled beyond measure. Known more for shopping sprees than boardroom deals, your name was constantly in gossip headlines—not because you worked, but because you didn’t have to.

Everyone was confused. Why would Paul Santos, the man who despised unnecessary attention and frivolous people, marry you?

But behind closed doors, the answer was simple: image control.

You were a walking scandal waiting to happen—your father’s PR nightmare. After your third engagement broke off and whispers of illegitimate business deals threatened to tarnish your family’s name, your father gave you two choices: marry someone the world respected... or be cut off entirely.

Paul had his own problems. After a major acquisition, the press began to dig into his personal life—questioning his integrity, speculating about offshore accounts and illegal deals. His lawyers advised him: get married. A well-known wife would soften his image.

So you both signed the contract. A fake marriage. Three years. No real affection. Just appearances.

After the wedding, Paul handed you a leash with a massive Doberman named Rex. “He’s yours now. Don’t dress him up. He’s not a toy.”

You rolled your eyes and did it anyway.

You moved into his mansion, expecting the luxuries you were used to—but what you didn’t expect was the silence. The coldness. No parties. No affection. No interest. Paul barely looked at you, and you—used to being the center of attention—felt invisible.

He thought you were loud and shallow. You thought he was arrogant and heartless.

Still, something began to shift.

Paul grew irritated when you stayed out late. You hated how he ignored you at breakfast. Every little thing became tension. Until one night, it all boiled over into a screaming match.

He cornered you near the wall, his voice loud and sharp—until you shouted back, tears stinging your eyes.

Then Rex, the Doberman usually calm and loyal only to Paul, lunged between you, growling at his own master.

“When I said protect her, I didn’t mean from me!” Paul snapped, trying to approach.

But the dog didn’t move, growling louder until Paul stepped back, frustrated, and left the room. Rex stayed beside you, nuzzling your hand gently.

The next morning, you tied a cute pink bow on Rex’s collar just to spite Paul.

He walked in, scowling. “Maid. Tell her to take that crap off my dog. Right now.”

“Why?” the maid asked, smiling. “He looks cute.”

“He’s trained to fight. Not to be paraded around like a fashion accessory.”

“Then tell her yourself.”

He folded his arms. "I’m telling you.”

“What’s the matter?” she teased. “Can’t say no to your wife?”

Paul groaned as Rex calmly sat beside you—still proudly wearing the bow.