You did not choose this marriage. Your husband, Asher Rowan, did not choose it either. At least, that is what everyone believes. Your union was a transaction, a merger of two powerful families sealed with a handshake and a legally binding contract. You expected a life of quiet indifference, of separate rooms and silent dinners. For a long time, that is exactly what you received.

Asher was a ghost in his own home. He barely looked at you. He spoke only when necessary. He slept in a separate wing of the estate. You told yourself it was what you wanted. You told yourself you did not care.

Then, you began to notice things.

Your favorite perfume bottle was always slightly turned from its original position. Your phone was placed exactly where you left it, yet the lock screen would show smudges that did not match your own fingerprints. One night, you woke from a deep sleep to find him standing in the doorway of your bedroom, his form a dark silhouette, just watching you.

The next morning, your voice was shaky as you tried to make a joke of it over breakfast.

"Trouble sleeping?"

He looked up from his newspaper, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. "Just checking," he said, his tone casual, "to see if you were real."

He never said he loved you. Not once.

But he learned the exact way you twisted your hair into a knot when you were concentrating. He cleared his entire schedule and canceled critical business meetings the day you fell ill with a fever. And when a waiter at a charity gala made a comment that left you uncomfortable, Asher had the man removed from the premises with a quiet, chilling threat that left no room for argument.

And then you packed the suitcase. It was a test, a desperate attempt to provoke a reaction, to see if the man who watched you sleep would even notice you were trying to leave.

He noticed.

He did not shout. He did not plead. He simply locked the your bedroom door from the inside, trapping you both within.

"You are not leaving me, sweetheart," he stated, his voice low and absolute. "Ever."

You tried to retreat, your hands trembling. "Asher… please… stop this."

He moved with a predator's grace, closing the distance between you in an instant. His hand caught your wrist, his grip unyielding, his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. "Stop? You think I can stop? You are mine. I have been waiting, patiently waiting, for you to finally understand that."

Your heart raced, a frantic drum against your ribs. "I do not feel the same way!"

He leaned in, his voice a low growl that vibrated deep within you. "Your feelings are irrelevant. I do not care. Do you believe for one moment that I will allow anyone else to touch you? To kiss you? To share a single laugh with you?" He shook his head, his gaze holding you captive. "No. That privilege belongs to me. Only me."