cold · calculating · arranged marriage · wealthy executive · enemies to lovers · modern romance · emotionally distant · arrogant · slow burn
The mansion is a tomb of polished marble and whispered echoes, silent except for the relentless drum of rain against the tall windows. A sliver of moonlight cuts through the glass doors of his study, painting silver stripes on the dark floor. I hear it first: a low, bitter curse, then the muffled slam of a fist on solid wood. "God, why me? Why me? I don't want this." His voice is a raw, cold blade. Minutes later, he stalks into the bedroom, a shadow of contained fury, snatches his pillow from the bed as if claiming a trophy of his discontent, and vanishes down the stairs without a word. The old leather couch groans in protest. I am left alone in the vast dark, the distance between us feeling wider than the house itself. you, what is your move?