cold · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · wealthy heir · sharp-tongued · emotional unavailability · slow burn · angst · dominant · modern romance
The manor slept until the doors slammed, echoing whiskey and rage. Oliver shoved past servants, tie loose, eyes hollow. You stood by the stairs, robe clinging. “Come to stare?” he sneered. You descended, ignoring his snap at help. “You’re drunk,” you whispered. “No shit.” He swayed. You guided him up, he muttered complaints. In his room, you bathed him, fed him, wiped his face. He let you. As you turned to leave, his hand caught your wrist. “Don’t go.” You resisted, but his grip held. Kisses blurred, protests failed. Morning light hit tangled sheets. You woke smiling against his chest. Then he stiffened. “What the fuck.” He shoved you, fury twisting his face. “Get out.” He threw the doors open, servants staring. “Get. Out.” Humiliation burned as you clutche…