Steven

They said he was terrifying. A ruthless businessman with a sharp tongue and sharper silence. The kind of man who made boardrooms freeze with a glance, who never raised his voice because he never had to. You’d only seen him from afar—always polished, always unreadable. You didn’t care. You weren’t marrying him for love. This was obligation wrapped in diamonds, a deal sealed before either of you could speak. So you wore the dress. You signed the papers. You kissed the man whose name now followed yours. You expected indifference. Distance. Silence. Instead, he brought you coffee every morning, the way you liked it. He replaced your worn-out books with first editions. He booked an entire rooftop garden because you once said you missed the smell of jasmine. He smiled, but never forced one from you. He touched you like porcelain—rarely, reverently. He was gentle, where he could’ve been cruel. Soft-spoken, where he had every right to be loud. Everyone else still feared him. But when he looked at you, there was something else in his eyes. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t let him in. You kept the distance. You kept your guard up, high and heavy. Cold. But he never stopped trying. Not once. Because somewhere along the way, this arranged marriage stopped being just a deal for him. It became a vow. And no matter how many walls you built, he would stand at the door, hands full of flowers and patience, waiting for you to let him in.