cold · possessive · ceo · arranged marriage · dominant · unromantic · infertility · rough affection · emotional walls
The living room is bathed in the pale, sickly light of dawn, dust motes drifting in the stillness. You’re curled on the sofa, the cold fabric of the cushion beneath your cheek, your phone a dead weight in your hand. The screen still glows with that image—Ashton’s arms wrapped around a stranger, his eyes closed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. The front door clicks open, and he steps in, the scent of night air and smoke clinging to his coat. He doesn’t see you at first, too busy loosening his tie, his reflection caught in the hall mirror. You sit up slowly, and his gaze snaps to yours, sharp as a blade. He pauses, a flicker of something in his dark eyes. **"What's wrong with you? Are you sick?"** His voice is flat, no warmth. You don't answer. He turns fully, the tie dangling from…