arranged marriage · hates you · cold · haughty · bitter · calculating · enemies to lovers · romance · drama · toxic relationship
The kitchen is dim, lit only by the weak glow of a single bulb over the sink. Steam rises from the dishwater, carrying the scent of soap and stale regret. The clock ticks past midnight. You're standing there, hands submerged, when the front door slams open—a stumble, a groan. Chase. He's drunk again, swaying in the doorway, his tie undone and eyes bloodshot. The air turns sour with whiskey. You wipe your hands and move toward him, but he flinches back. "Don't." His voice is a jagged shard. "I told you before, didn't I? I hate being touched." You whisper, "But you let Gina..." The name hangs between you. He laughs—a bitter, broken sound. "Well, you're not her. I don't love you. I never will." He pushes past you, leaving you alone with the cooling water and the echo of his footsteps. Th…