Back in the Rolls-Royce, the silence was even heavier than before. Seraphina gazed out the window; the city lights blurred into a meaningless blur.

In this city, countless eyes are speculating about what kind of stunning or breathtakingly beautiful bride the rebellious Montgomery heir will marry.

Nobody knows, but the answer lies in this back seat—a woman whose name doesn't even deserve to appear in the headlines.

Her thoughts drifted back to that unassuming city hall. There were no flashing lights, no audience seats, only two cold chairs and a confidentiality agreement tucked away at the bottom. The elderly clerk in charge of registration didn't even dare to look her in the eye before leaving, mechanically signing and stamping the documents.

When Julian suggested keeping things simple, she foolishly mistook his aloofness for pragmatism. She agreed, thinking it reflected his decisive nature.

Eighteen months. Enough to grind down any sliver of hope she had ever held into fine ashes. She had naively believed that with enough perseverance, she could warm a stone.

She remembered their "wedding night" vividly. They stood in the living room of their now-shared, spacious penthouse—though separated in different areas. He didn't touch her. Instead, he handed her a leather folder. A postnuptial agreement.

“Seraphina,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Our marriage is a business partnership. I will provide you with the status and wealth of Mrs. Montgomery. In return, you will give me freedom. We will not interfere in each other's lives.”

She smiled as she signed the documents, a silent vow echoing in her heart: I will make you fall in love with me.

Looking back now, she could see a hint of mocking amusement in his eyes. He had seen right through her.

The car smoothly pulled into the private underground parking garage of the Manhattan penthouse. Julian got out first, not even glancing at her, and strode towards the elevator. It was his habit—never waiting, as if she were merely an insignificant appendage in his vast estate.

Watching his departing figure, a reckless impulse mixed with despair and anger surged into my heart.

“Julian!” she called out, her voice barely audible in the vast concrete space.

He stopped, turned around, his expression inscrutable, but his eyes flashed with a familiar, impatient light.

She walked towards him, her heart pounding in her ribs. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. "Tonight...can you stay?"

A slow, cold smile spread across his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Oh? Is this a clause I forgot in our agreement?"

His words were like a bucket of ice water, extinguishing the little courage she had just mustered. The humiliation was so intense that she felt a wave of heat wash over her cheeks.

He took a step closer, his tall frame completely enveloping her, trapping her in his shadow. His powerful aura was suffocating.

“Are you proposing to fulfill your wifely duties?” he murmured, his voice low and menacing. “Are you sure? This isn’t a business deal, Seraphina. This is going to be a very… physical transaction.”

She recoiled as if burned, her face now a deep crimson. Shame and anger battled within her, leaving her speechless. She knew countless women in this city would fight tooth and nail to get into his bed. And she, his legal wife, was being made to feel like a prostitute begging for his attention.

This is her marriage. A pathetic joke.

All she wanted was a semblance of normalcy, a hint of a genuine relationship. But he reminded her in the cruelest way that it was nothing more than a transaction. He never considered her feelings. He only cared about whether his rules were followed. Her attempts to establish contact were, in his eyes, nothing more than annoying breaches of contract.

She bit her lip hard, forcing herself to lift her head, her eyes flashing with a stubborn light.

Julian seemed drawn to the interplay of unshed tears and defiance in her eyes.

“I just thought…we could at least try to be friends,” she said, her voice trembling but clear.

They stared at each other for a long time, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Finally, he looked away and turned to walk towards the elevator. "I don't need friends."

“Julian!” she cried again, her voice tinged with despair. This was the first time she had rebelled like this. She hated her own weakness, and she hated his indifference even more.

The elevator doors slid open. He paused at the doorway, but didn't turn around, as if giving her one last chance to speak.

The words of protest and pleading stuck in her throat. "I... goodnight," she finally managed to say, her voice choked with emotion, utterly defeated.

He didn't respond. He stepped into the elevator, and the polished steel doors slowly closed, erasing him from her sight.

In the cold, silent garage, she was utterly alone. Meanwhile, in some corner of the city, a gossip columnist was going crazy trying to find any clues about Montgomery's marriage. They would never know that the truth about this marriage was more shameful than any fabricated scandal.

Seraphina took the other elevator up to the penthouse. She went straight to her wing, into her bedroom, and let herself fall onto the king—sized bed. Julian's mocking voice echoed in her ears.

Why had she done that? Why had she invited that humiliation upon herself?

She buried her face in the silk pillows, as if she could suffocate the memory. But the image of his cruel, handsome smile was burned into her mind.

She got up and went into the en—suite bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. She was still leaning over the sink, staring at her own pathetic reflection, when the bathroom door swung open behind her.

Julian stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. His suit jacket was gone, his tie loosened, and his eyes held a glint she couldn't quite read—something sharper than the cold disdain from the garage, something that almost looked like amusement. A teasing glint, as if he had caught her at something embarrassing and was waiting to see what she would do next.

Her breath snagged in her throat. He never came to her wing. He never sought her out after one of their exchanges. His presence here, now, felt like a violation and a dare all at once.

"Still recovering from your brave performance downstairs?" His voice was low, laced with mockery. "You looked ready to give a speech. I almost stayed to hear it."

She gripped the edge of the marble counter, her knuckles white. "I didn't think you cared enough to follow me."

"I don't care," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "But I find your persistence... curious. It borders on entertainment."

The word stung, but she refused to let him see it. "Glad I can amuse you."

He didn't move from the doorway, his tall frame blocking her only exit. The sheer proximity—him in her space, in her bathroom—made the air feel thin. She looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

"You had something else to say, didn't you? In the garage." His voice was quieter now, almost a murmur. "Say it."

She shook her head, a flush creeping up her neck. "It doesn't matter."

"It mattered enough for you to call my name twice." He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he was on the verge of solving. "You're full of those, aren't you? Little bursts of courage that crumble the moment I look at you."

She said nothing. He waited another long moment, then pushed himself off the doorframe. "Goodnight, Seraphina."

He was gone before she could gather her voice, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

She stood frozen, her heart pounding in her ears. The teasing glint in his eye, the way he had cornered her in her own space—it felt like a game she didn't know the rules to. Her gaze drifted to her reflection, and her thoughts slipped away, pulled backward in time to the moment it had all begun. Back to the reason she had agreed to this sham of a marriage in the first place.

It was two years ago. The first anniversary of her mother's death. Her father and stepmother were throwing a lavish birthday party for her stepsister, Wendy. They had forgotten the date entirely.

Feeling abandoned by the world, she had booked a flight to Interlaken, Switzerland. It had been her mother's favorite place.

She was standing near the edge of a cliff on Jungfrau, lost in a fog of grief. The altitude and her emotional turmoil made her dizzy. She stumbled, her foot slipping on a patch of loose rock.

A powerful arm shot out and yanked her back from the precipice. She crashed into a hard, solid chest.

She was so shaken, so overwhelmed with grief and terror, that she started screaming at her rescuer. "Why didn't you let me fall! Just let me die!"

The man holding her, a young Julian Montgomery, had looked down at her with cold, piercing blue eyes. "If you want to die, the Hudson River is cheaper. Don't ruin the view for everyone else."

His words were brutal. But in that moment, looking up at his chiseled face, her heart had given a violent, traitorous leap.

He made sure she was steady on her feet, then turned and walked away without another word, without giving his name.

From that day on, she couldn't get him out of her head. She replayed the moment over and over, regretting her hysterical outburst. Her best friend, Sloane Sinclair, had later teased her relentlessly, saying she had a classic case of Stockholm syndrome, falling for a man who insulted her.

Six months later, when her grandfather arranged a meeting with her prospective husband, she had walked into the restaurant and frozen. It was him. Julian Montgomery. The heir to the legendary New York dynasty.

It felt like fate.

She, who had been fiercely opposed to an arranged marriage, changed her mind in an instant. Her sudden compliance had shocked her family. Only she knew the truth. She wasn't doing it for the Beaumont family. She was doing it for the man who had saved her life on a Swiss mountain and then cut her to the quick with his words.

So they were engaged, and then they were married.

She had walked into this marriage with a heart full of hope, believing it was the start of her own epic love story.

Now, eighteen months later, the reality was a cold slap in the face. He was still the untouchable Julian Montgomery, and she was still a stranger he kept at arm's length. All her efforts, all her quiet devotion, had shattered against the wall of his indifference.

He had probably forgotten all about the crying girl in Switzerland. She was too afraid to ask, too terrified to hear him say he didn't remember.

She started to wonder if her entire marriage was built on a mistake. Was this persistence, this love, just a foolish delusion? She was tired of giving, of trying, of hoping.

But then she would remember the intense blue of his eyes, and all her resolve would crumble.

She slapped her cheeks lightly, trying to bring herself back to the present. Loving him was a curse. This luxurious bedroom felt less like a home and more like a beautiful prison. And there was no escape. His power and his coldness were walls she could not climb.

The memory faded, leaving only the cold, hard present. She was still the pathetic woman he had rejected in the garage, the woman he had just cornered and mocked in her own bathroom. The snow—capped mountains of Switzerland and the glittering skyline of New York swirled together in her mind—a romantic beginning, a desolate reality. Her feelings for him were a tangled mess of love, resentment, and a stubborn, unbreakable obsession.