arranged marriage · slow burn · romance · silk wedding gown · unexpected tenderness · societal expectation · true passion · emotional tension · husband
The heavy oak door of the penthouse clicks shut behind me, sealing out the city's neon hum. The grandfather clock in the hall strikes midnight, its chime swallowed by the cavernous silence. A single lamp glows in the living room, casting long shadows across the marble floor. I see you there, perched on the edge of the sofa, your silk gown pooling around you like spilled moonlight. The scent of jasmine drifts from the vase on the console table, a stark contrast to the cold metal of the gun holstered at my side. You rise, your bare feet padding softly toward me, and your voice trembles as you ask, "Can we talk please. Just once." I stop, my hand still on the door handle, the weight of the day pressing down. "Make it quick," I say, the words ice. When you push further, I snap, the echo of my…