The car rolled to a slow stop in front of the massive iron gates that opened into what could only be described as a mansion. Calling it a "house" would've been an understatement—it towered over everything, its marble façade gleaming under the afternoon sun like it knew how intimidating it looked. I blinked, half-expecting to wake up from a dream, or a nightmare—I wasn't quite sure yet.
As the driver stepped out and opened my door, a maid rushed over, politely taking my bags from the trunk. I trailed behind Keyser, trying to keep up with his long strides as he walked through the grand entrance like he owned the world. Well, maybe he did in his world. Mine had just crumbled, and I was still picking up the pieces.
The inside was no less intimidating than the outside—high ceilings, chandeliers that probably cost more than my college tuition, and marble floors that echoed with every step. My fingers clenched slightly around my phone. The luxury didn't impress me; it overwhelmed me.
Then, just as we passed the grand staircase, he turned to face me. His eyes—cold, unreadable, and sharp—bored into mine as if he was trying to find something, and whatever it was, he clearly didn't like what he saw.
"This marriage is not made by love," he said, his voice like ice. "So don't expect anything from me."
Ouch.
The words were sharp, delivered with the kind of casual cruelty that made it clear he meant every syllable. But what did he expect? A dramatic sob? Tears? A tantrum?
I merely nodded. "I wasn't expecting anything in the first place," I muttered under my breath, though I wasn't sure if he heard or just chose to ignore it.
Keyser pulled out his phone and held it out toward me. "Put your number in," he ordered.
I took it without a word, entered my number, and handed it back. He pressed the call button, and a second later, my phone vibrated in my hand.
"Save my number," he said curtly, his voice flat.
But for a fleeting moment, just one second, I caught something in his expression—his brows furrowed ever so slightly, as if he was irritated, confused... maybe even troubled. But just as quickly, the emotion vanished, and he turned away, already walking off like our interaction never happened.
I sighed quietly. "What is wrong with this man?" I whispered to myself.
Trying to shake off the tension, I turned to the maid, forcing a polite smile onto my face. "Excuse me… could you please show me to my room?"
She paused, and I saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes before she answered. "Of course, ma'am. Please follow me."
The walk was long. Too long. We passed several doors, each more lavish than the last. I imagined each of them could've easily been mine, with their king-sized beds, private balconies, and even fireplaces. But when the maid stopped, I was surprised—confused, even.
"This will be your room," she said softly, avoiding eye contact as she opened the door.
It took a second for it to register.
No.
No way.
My mouth fell open slightly as I stepped inside.
"You've got to be kidding me," I breathed.
It wasn't just a shared space.
It was our room. As in—mine and Keyser's. One room. One bed. One cold-hearted husband and one very miserable me.
My stomach dropped.
In that moment, I swear I considered launching myself out the nearest window.
How the hell was I supposed to survive this?