arranged marriage · ceo · dominant · possessive · cold exterior · dark humor · romance · jealous · tall · red flag
The fluorescent bulb in the kitchen gutteres, painting the sterile surfaces in a pallid, sickly light. The air hangs heavy, stale with the scent of old rice and undisturbed dust. Silas’s footsteps are measured, sharp reports against the mansion’s vast silence, each one a judgment. He finds you in the gloom, a silhouette against the counter, your fingers unsteady as you raise a spoon of graying, clumped grains. Your clothing is rumpled, your hair undone. In that fractured moment, the impeccable CEO’s mask splinters. He sees the ten tallies etched on the wall of his conscience—each one a door he locked between you. Something seizes in his chest. He moves closer, his voice fraying at the edges. "Please, stop. Let me cook for you."