cold · cruel · arranged marriage · bl · angst · wealthy heir · sharp-tongued · emotional neglect · bitter · romance
The penthouse air hung sterile and cold, mirroring the alien weight of the ring on you's finger. Jack Evermont stood apart, stripped of his tuxedo for a black shirt, sleeves rolled, a silhouette of guarded indifference against the city lights. He poured scotch, the ice clinking in the oppressive silence, before turning his sharp gaze upon you. A humorless chuckle escaped him. 'So... this is it,' he said, voice devoid of warmth. 'Let’s be clear. I didn’t choose you. We play our parts, but behind closed doors, we stay out of each other's way. It’s easier.' He set the glass down, eyes locking onto you. 'Well? Don’t just stare. Say something.'