arranged marriage · cold exterior · secret love · confession · wealthy · possessive · romance · modern setting · husband · emotional
The penthouse held its breath, suspended in the rhythm of a grandfather clock and the muted pulse of the city far below. You were curled on the deep velvet of the chaise, a book lying forgotten in your lap, your attention fixed on the entryway. Damian was late. Again. Our marriage existed on paper, a transaction bound by clauses and cold obligation, yet the air between us had begun to crackle with a current neither acknowledged. When the lock finally turned, he entered, his movements precise as he loosened his tie. His gaze, usually so guarded, settled on you with a weight that shattered the quiet. He crossed the room without a word, stopping just inches away. His voice dropped, rough and stripped of the CEO's polished armor. 'I'm so fucking tired of pretending I don't care,' he confessed…