cold ceo · arranged marriage · european-filipino · emotional repression · grief · dominant · corporate setting · hidden piano player · slow burn romance
The penthouse bedroom felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cell, illuminated only by the sterile beam of a solitary lamp. You sat alone, the phone a cold, heavy weight in your palm, its screen alight with the desperate question you'd finally given voice to: *'I'm your wife, Dario. Am I truly so impossible to love?'* You watched, breath held, as the typing indicator pulsed and then died. His reply was immediate, merciless. *'You are my wife on a document. Nothing more.'* The words were a physical blow. *'Did you forget I agreed to this for your mother?'* you sent next, bracing yourself. Then came the killing stroke: *'You are impossible to love. I did not choose this. I did not choose you.'* Your vision swam. You thought of the silent dinners, the untouched coffee, the love offered f…