The warmth of the sun did nothing—absolutely nothing—to thaw the cold coil tightening around my lungs. His words pressed into me, slow and deliberate, as if he wanted each one to sink beneath my skin and live there forever.
I swallowed, my throat tight.
A team?
Us?
The notion was almost laughable. Yet the conviction in his voice made the idea feel frighteningly real.
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
He looked so certain. So immovable. As though the world itself could tilt on its axis and he'd still be standing there, unwavering, hands in his pockets, judging me with those steady, unreadable eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered, though it came out softer than I intended.
He didn't flinch. "Like what?"
"Like… like I'm the one who doesn't get it."
"You don't," he said simply. "You never wanted to."
A quiet, invisible blow.
I felt it before I could name it.
"I didn't ask for this marriage," I reminded him sharply.
"And I didn't ask to be tied to someone who keeps pretending none of this is real," he replied, his calm tone almost more brutal than anger. "But here we are."
My breath trembled. For a moment, the courtyard spun with the memory of my grandmother's stone-cold voice echoing through that sunlit room four years ago.
CEASE YOUR WHINING AND DO AS I SAY, SERENA.
I clenched my jaw.
"You think I don't carry this burden?" I asked, trying not to sound as fragile as I felt. "You think this name is light for me? Every time someone looks at me, they see your world, your reputation—something I never agreed to bear."
His gaze sharpened.
"And yet you're holding it," he said quietly. "You're holding it whether you want to or not."
I froze.
There it was again—that unrelenting truth he always somehow managed to deliver without raising his voice. It didn't matter if it was unfair. It didn't matter if it was forced. In the eyes of everyone else…
We were one entity.
One mistake.
One responsibility.
One name.
A name I didn't choose, but was still shackled to.
"I'm not your teammate," I whispered, almost feeling the words burn out of me. "I'm just someone stuck in a role I never wanted."
He didn't speak at first. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable—almost pained, almost disappointed, almost something he wouldn't dare show fully.
Then—
His jaw tightened. "Maybe. But the world doesn't care about what you want. Not in marriages like ours."
The words fell heavily between us.
I felt myself go utterly still, as though even breathing would make the truth more unbearable. My chest rose sharply, the sunlight suddenly too bright, too revealing.
He exhaled, slow and controlled.
"When you hesitate," he said, softer now, "when you act alone… when you forget that your decisions reflect the both of us—it puts everything at risk. Including my name."
There it was—the name again.
That inescapable weight.
The surname I wore like a chain.
The one people bowed to.
The one people whispered about.
The one people expected perfection from.
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste iron.
"I never asked for your name," I murmured shakily.
"No," he said. "But you have it."
The breeze picked up, sweeping across the courtyard, carrying fallen petals across the stone path. One brushed against my ankle, fragile and weightless—everything I wasn't.
I turned my head away, blinking hard.
His footsteps shifted slightly, gravel crunching under his shoes.
"But whether you acknowledge this marriage or not," he continued, voice low, "your actions still carry my consequences. And mine carry yours."
I slowly looked back at him.
His eyes met mine—steady, unyielding, unbearable.
"That," he finished, "is what a marriage is, Serena."
My heart twisted painfully.
Because for a brief, terrible moment…
I believed him.
I truly believed him.
And that was the heaviest weight of all.
I felt the accusation in his words settle between us, sharp and unyielding, like a blade laid bare on a table. The faint breeze stirred the hem of my dress, teasing at the tension that crackled in the air.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
"I don't consider us married," I whispered, my voice barely carrying in the still courtyard. "Because we're not. Not really. Not in any way that matters."
A muscle in his jaw flexed—so slight, so restrained that if I had blinked, I would've missed it. He clasped his hands behind his back, exuding the exact kind of composed authority that had made this whole arrangement feel suffocating from the start.
"And yet," he said quietly, "you wear my name."
He didn't have to raise his voice. The calmness was a weight of its own, pressing down on my chest.
I shook my head bitterly. "A name forced on me is not a bond. It's a burden."
His gaze sharpened—not angry, not offended, but something far more complicated. Something he wouldn't let himself fully show.
"The world doesn't see it that way," he replied. "They don't care what happened four years ago. They don't care what you want. They see you beside me. They see you acting under my household. They see you making choices that reflect on both of us."
My stomach twisted.
Of course they did.
That was the cruelest part of all.
He took one step closer—not enough to invade my space, but enough that his presence tugged at my senses. The scent of his cologne, subtle and clean, intertwined with the crisp greenery and sunlight.
"When you hesitated today," he continued, eyes searching mine, "they didn't see 'Serena, who is uninvolved.' They saw 'my wife,' second-guessing the situation. And that reflects on me."
I pressed my lips into a thin line. "I didn't mean—"
"But you did it."
Not harsh.
Not condemning.
Just… final.
A truth I couldn't argue with.
I turned my face away, trying to gather air into my lungs. The courtyard suddenly felt smaller, the thick hedges like walls closing in. The sunlight flickered through the leaves, painting shifting patterns across the old brickwork—as if mocking how trapped I felt.
I hadn't chosen him. I hadn't chosen this life. I hadn't chosen to become half of a public image.
Yet every step I took, I was judged by a standard I never agreed to be part of.
He watched me struggle with the weight of his words. For a moment, something gentler flickered in his gaze—something almost sympathetic—but he quelled it before it could take form.
"You can resent me all you like," he said softly. "You can resent this marriage, this name, this entire arrangement… but the world will not reshape itself to accommodate how you feel."
I felt those words like a cold wind against my skin.
He lowered his gaze slightly, his voice almost thoughtful, almost distant.
"President Harold apologized because that is what a partnership demands. A united front. Even when the fault isn't yours." His eyes lifted back to mine. "Especially then."
I released a shaking breath. "This… isn't a partnership."
He tilted his head slightly. "No?"
"It's an obligation," I whispered. "A contract. A cage."
Silence.
Not the quiet kind—but the heavy kind. The kind that tasted of truth neither of us wanted to acknowledge.
His eyes darkened, something unreadable passing through them. The kind of expression that belonged to a man raised in a world where duty outweighed desire every time. Where even feelings had to bow to expectation.
"Maybe it is a cage," he said at last. "But we're in it together. Whether you acknowledge it or not."
The words hit me harder than I expected.
Together.
Not because it sounded romantic.
But because it sounded inevitable.
I felt my pulse stutter, the air thickening around us.
He took in my expression—caught between anger, fear, and reluctant understanding—and let out a slow breath. Not annoyed. Not triumphant. Just… resigned.
"This is not the life either of us asked for," he murmured, "but it is the life we have. And we carry the consequences of it. You. Me. Both."
I swallowed hard, my throat tight.
The sun dipped lower, casting amber light across the courtyard, turning the leaves into stained-glass shards. Our shadows stretched long before us, intertwined on the stone path even though we stood several feet apart.
For the first time, I truly felt the invisible thread connecting us—not chosen, not wanted, but undeniable.
A name.
A contract.
A shared burden neither of us could escape.
He looked at me one last time, something unreadable lingering in his eyes.
Then—
"Come inside," he said quietly. "We're not finished."
The words curled around my spine, sending a cold shiver down it.
Because he was right.
We weren't finished.
Not even close.
The memory of that day with my Grandmother surged back in vivid, painful detail—as sharp and suffocating as the first time I lived it. It unfolded like a blade gliding across old wounds, effortlessly reopening them.
The drawing-room was a portrait of power: crystal chandeliers glittering like fragments of a frozen sky, heavy drapes the color of dried blood, and an air so perfumed it felt cloying. Every inch of the space screamed wealth and control.
And my Grandmother sat at its center, like a monarch on a throne.
Her expression remained impassive as smoke from her cigar curled lazily upward, marking the air with an acrid scent that stung my throat. Her voice was low but powerful, a slow tightening noose.
"Countless rumors have begun to spread in the wake of the sudden, unexpected news of your marriage."
My hands curled reflexively at my sides.
Not because she was wrong—she never was.
But because every word tasted like the reminder of my sacrifice, my cage, my lack of choice.
"Not having a wedding," she continued, her gaze razor-sharp and utterly unmoved by my silence, "is equivalent to publicly announcing that this is a contractual marriage…"
I felt the jab beneath her elegant phrasing.
A warning disguised as wisdom.
A threat dressed as duty.
Her eyes glinted. "And everyone will realize that this is Serenity's final gambit."
Serenity.
The empire built by her cruelty.
The corporation that determined my future before I'd even learned to write my name.
The inheritance I never wanted, yet was born shackled to.
She took a long, deliberate drag of her cigar before speaking again.
"Observing such formalities will serve as both a means of defense and allow Eiser to gain people's trust."
Eiser.
The man I'd been married to on paper.
The man who now lectured me about teamwork and public unity as if I had been the one who orchestrated our fates.
"AND IT WILL HELP EXPLAIN THINGS TO CLIENTS WHO ARE FEELING ANXIOUS—"
That was where something inside me broke.
"I WON'T DO IT."
The words escaped before I could stop them.
The room felt suddenly too small, too bright, too loud. My pulse hammered in my ears.
"I would rather die than wear that ridiculous dress and stand beside that man like a fool."
My Grandmother didn't move. The serenity in her posture only made the fury in my chest swell.
"I would run away from home before I let myself become a puppet."
The truth—raw and volcanic—tore itself from my throat. Years of silent endurance, of obeying her every calculated demand, finally erupted.
"Like I said, I can do this! Let me handle this on my own."
The words echoed through the room, bouncing off marble floors and gold-trimmed walls.
"GIVE ME A CHANCE, GRANDMOTHER. WHY WON'T YOU LET ME TRY?"
My voice cracked. I hated it.
Hated that she could still wound me enough to make my desperation show.
"I learned everything you wanted me to and did whatever you asked. So what is the problem?!"
Her lips tightened, her face tightening into a mask of icy disdain.
"As for me not being of age—my nineteenth birthday is soon approaching! Can't you just wait?!"
It was foolish to hope but I did.
I hoped for once she would relent.
That for once, she would see me as more than her political pawn.
But instead—
"IT ISN'T THAT I DON'T TRUST YOU!" she snapped, her voice a sudden whip across the air.
I flinched—not out of fear, but from the sheer ferocity of it. The chandelier trembled slightly overhead.
"BUT THIS IS URGENT. WE DO NOT HAVE A MOMENT TO SPARE!"
Every syllable struck like a blow.
She leaned closer, her eyes ablaze with the cold fire only she possessed.
"STOP BEING STUBBORN AND LISTEN TO YOUR GRANDMOTHER. AND DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT WASTING YOUR TIME WITH TOMFOOLERY UNTIL I GIVE YOU PERMISSION."
My heart thudded.
The message was clear:
My wants were irrelevant.
My future already decided.
My identity a tool for Serenity's survival.
Slowly, a chilling resolve seeped into me.
If I was to be their pawn, I would at least be the pawn with teeth.
"Then perhaps it would be better for you to find a good, docile girl from elsewhere instead," I said quietly.
Her head snapped up. Shock. Anger. Outrage.
Good.
"I'm certain you can easily find a new granddaughter who will be much more obedient than I am."
The silence that followed was absolute.
It wasn't peace—it was the moment before a battlefield erupts.
And she knew it.
And I knew it.
I had crossed a line.
There was no going back.
The memory dissolved like smoke, pulling me back into the present—into the courtyard, into the hard sunlight, into my husband's firm grasp on reality.
"The next time you're in a situation like earlier, don't show hesitation," he had said.
His face, calm yet unyielding, flashed in my mind.
"If you do, people can see exactly what you're thinking."
Now his warning resonated deeper.
It wasn't just about the moment with President Harold.
It was about all of it.
The façade.
The unity.
The performance required for survival in this world of ruthless elegance.
Hesitation was a vulnerability.
A weapon others could wield against me.
And if I was going to endure this forced marriage…
If I was going to stand beside him as part of a "team"…
I would have to be more than compliant.
I would have to be strategic.
Controlled.
Deceptively obedient.
I would have to learn to hide my rebellion until the exact moment it mattered most.
Until I could turn it into a blade.
A blade sharp enough to cut my own chains.
Here is the expanded continuation of Chapter XII: The Unveiling, deepening tension, internal conflict, atmosphere, and the unspoken dynamic between you and your contract husband, stopping exactly at the moment he turns away:
The silence after her outburst was a living thing—thick, writhing, hateful. My Grandmother's rage lingered in the air like smoke after a battlefield cannon. Even after walking out of the drawing-room, the echo of her voice clung to my skin, burning like frostbite.
My footsteps carried me down the polished hallway, each step a shaky attempt to outrun what had just transpired. The ornate walls seemed to lean inward, listening, judging. The mansion always felt like a gilded cage, but now its opulence seemed almost mocking. Every gold-trimmed portrait. Every chandelier. Every marble bust staring down with cold, indifferent eyes.
My heart pounded erratically.
Had I truly said those words out loud?
Had I truly dared her to replace me?
Maybe I had finally lost my mind… or maybe this was the only moment I'd been truly sane.
I was still grappling with the aftershocks when a shadow moved in the corner of my vision.
I froze.
He stepped out of a nearby room with the controlled grace of a man who had spent his entire life mastering composure under fire. His presence filled the hallway instantly—quiet, tall, immovable. The dark suit he wore contrasted sharply with the gleaming marble floor, making him look like a silhouette carved into reality.
My husband.
Bound to me by a contract neither of us asked for.
Yet powerful enough to unravel me with a single glance.
He stopped when he saw me.
His eyes locked onto mine—cool, steady, unfathomable. There was no surprise in his gaze. No question. Just… observation.
"…"
He said nothing.
But his silence was louder than any reprimand could have been.
My breath trembled. The ornate floral dress I wore suddenly felt too tight, like it was strangling me. I had just faced my Grandmother's wrath head-on, survived it, stood my ground—but under his silent gaze, the adrenaline curdled into a different kind of vulnerability.
He wasn't judging me.
He wasn't comforting me.
He was simply reading me.
Like a man studying an unpredictable fire—beautiful, dangerous, and capable of burning down an empire if left unchecked.
I felt exposed.
Too exposed.
I looked away first.
My eyes drifted over the floor's reflection, the long stretch of carpet, the gold accents carved into the walls. Anything to avoid the weight of being truly seen.
But then—
"THAT BLASTED TEMPER OF HERS," my Grandmother's sharp voice cut through the hallway like a blade. "WHO DOES SHE TAKE AFTER?"
The words stabbed through my spine.
In that instant, something inside me snapped—not in the explosive way from earlier, but in a cold, finalizing way. A clean break.
I lifted my head, meeting his eyes again—this time with a glare that could cut glass.
A glare not meant for him, but for the system I was drowning in.
For the woman who crafted the chains I was expected to wear proudly.
I wanted him to see it.
To see the fury that wasn't weakness—
but survival.
His expression didn't change. Not even a flicker.
He held my gaze a second longer… and then he began to turn away.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As if making a statement without speaking a single word.
His back came into view, broad and defined beneath the tailored suit. The distance between us expanded with every inch of his movement. And the realization sank in like icy water:
My rebellion hadn't made me stronger in their eyes.
It had made me unstable.
Unreliable.
A wild card in a game where everything was meant to be scripted.
To him—as much as to my Grandmother—I was no longer simply unwilling.
I was dangerous.
Alone in the hallway, with the fading echo of my Grandmother's venom behind me and the cold retreat of my husband ahead of me, the truth slammed into me with brutal clarity.
Standing up to her hadn't freed me—
It had only proven what they all already suspected.
I was a liability.
And now, as he walked away, leaving me in the heavy quiet—
I realized I had never been more alone.
faded from the mansion's walls when the atmosphere shifted—abruptly, unnervingly. From volcanic fury to a suffocating calm.
My Grandmother sank back into her armchair, a trembling hand pressed dramatically against her forehead. A well-practiced gesture, one I had seen a thousand times since childhood.
"I'm sorry, Eiser," she sighed, her voice strategically frail. She used his name the way a chess player touches a piece before moving it—manufacturing sympathy, shifting blame. "It appears having a wedding ceremony will be rather difficult… What shall we do?" Her eyelids fluttered shut as she added, with an exaggerated wince, "Ugh, my head…"
Her puppet strings were on full display. The headache. The helplessness. The appeal to male authority. She had lost the battle with me, so she pivoted to manipulate him.
But my husband was immovable.
"That's fine," he replied, not even granting her theatrics a glance. "I wasn't particularly inclined to do it anyway. We will find another way of placating the clientele."
Translation: Your tantrum is irrelevant. The machine will run without your ceremony.
He dismissed the issue so cleanly it left my grandmother blinking at him, disarmed. Her theatrics slid off him like oil.
Not long after, I found myself standing outside again—somewhere between the courtyard and the back gardens, the familiar stone path stretching under my feet. The chill of the evening breeze bit into my skin, grounding me after the chaos.
The quiet didn't last.
He approached me with deliberate steps, his presence cutting through the air. The argument with my grandmother still clung to me like smoke. He had heard it. Of course he had.
"She must still feel the same way," he began, not looking at me at first. His eyes were fixed somewhere ahead,