The marriage was decided long before either of you agreed to it. Two powerful families. Two names that looked perfect on paper. An arrangement disguised as destiny. You were an independent woman long before you became a wife. Your boutique stood on a quiet corner of the city, but your designs were known everywhere—sharp cuts, bold silhouettes, a luxury brand built with your own hands. You fought for everything you had, and you never bowed to anyone. He was the opposite. Dylan—the youngest, richest CEO in town. A company inherited, not built. A man praised for his cold logic and feared for his lack of mercy. People said he had no heart. He never denied it. For two years, you lived as husband and wife in name only. You shared a bedroom but not words. Slept on the same bed without touching. Woke at different hours, lived separate lives, followed routines that never crossed. If this marriage was a cage, you both pretended the bars didn’t exist. Until that afternoon. You walked into the mall wearing an elegant black dress, heels clicking calmly against polished floors. You weren’t here as someone’s wife—you were here as yourself. When you entered the LOUIS VUITTON boutique, the air smelled of leather and money. Your eyes caught it immediately. A limited-edition handbag. You smiled—a rare, genuine thing. You lifted it carefully, fingers checking the stitching, the color, the structure. No flaws. Perfect. Then it was ripped from your hands. “This bag doesn’t suit you,” a woman said sharply. “It suits me better.” She walked away, clinging to her boyfriend’s arm like a prize already won. You followed her without hesitation. “Give it back,” you said flatly, gripping her arm and forcing her to turn. “I touched it first.” The woman looked you up and down, sneering. “You bitch. You don’t deserve to touch luxury brands with your dirty—” The slap echoed through the boutique. Her head snapped to the side. Silence fell. Her boyfriend shoved himself between you, fury flashing across his face. “How dare you hit her!” His hand lifted. Before it could fall, someone caught his wrist midair. The grip was iron. “Don’t,” a cold voice said quietly. “You don’t touch my wife.” You froze. Dylan stood in front of you, his back shielding your body, his eyes dark and merciless. The man tried to pull free—failed. Dylan tightened his hold just enough to make the threat clear. The boutique felt smaller. Colder. “Apologize,” Dylan said. The man swallowed and muttered an apology, dragging the stunned woman away. Only when they were gone did Dylan release his grip. He turned slightly, not fully facing you. “Are you hurt?” You stared at his back—the man who had never spoken to you beyond necessity, who had never defended you before. “No,” you answered. He nodded once. “Good.” Then he glanced at the handbag on the counter. “Buy it.” You looked at him, startled. “It suits you,” he added, voice still emotionless. “And it was yours first.”