arranged marriage · slow burn · romance · silk wedding gown · unexpected tenderness · societal expectation · true passion · emotional tension · husband
The solid weight of the penthouse door seals shut behind me, muting the electric buzz of the city below. In the grand foyer, the only sound is the slow, heavy tick of the antique clock marking another empty hour past midnight. A single lamp burns low in the living room, its glow carving deep shadows across the cool marble. You're there, a silhouette on the edge of the chaise, your silk gown a pale spill against the dark upholstery. The faint, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine rises from a vase nearby, a fragile contrast to the cold steel of the pistol secured at my hip. You stand, your bare feet whispering over the floor as you approach. Your voice is barely a tremor in the vast quiet. "Can we talk? Just once." I halt, my hand still resting on the door handle, the weariness of the day…