Chapter 2: A Stranger in My Husband's Eyes
The wedding ring was still heavy on my finger when the driver pulled up to the grand estate. I had seen pictures of this place in newspapers—known for its luxury, its intimidating gates, its cold beauty. Now it would be my home.
The man who sat beside me, my husband, hadn't said a word since we left the chapel. His name was Zayn kael, heir to the Lancaster Group, one of the most powerful business families in the country. Cold, calculated, controlled. That was the man I married.
But not out of love.
It had been arranged. A contract sealed by desperate circumstances and the weight of my father's debts.
He hated everything about this marriage. Especially me.
"You don't need to pretend like you belong here," zayn finally muttered, staring out the window. "This isn't your world."
I flinched but didn't respond. I already knew I didn't belong. I didn't need the reminder. I knew it from the way the staff stared at me when we entered, from the way silence echoed around me louder than any shout.
His mother hadn't even attended the wedding. Rumor said she was "displeased" with his choice, though she had no say in it either. This marriage was strictly business. Just one more transaction to protect both of our families' names.
The housekeeper led me to a room—far from Zayn's
"This will be your bedroom, Mrs. Kael," she said stiffly.
"Thank you," I whispered, staring at the cream-colored walls and untouched furniture. It didn't feel like a room. It felt like a cage.
When she left, I stood in front of the window, watching as Zayn disappeared into his office without once glancing back.
It was done.
I was his wife.
And he hated me.
Days passed like ghosts. We ate at the same table but never at the same time. The only words we exchanged were polite and shallow, or laced with passive anger.
On the fourth day, I found a note on the counter.
**Don't touch my things. Stay out of my study.
– E**
No greeting. No signature. Just that. I crumpled the paper and tossed it aside, heart sinking even lower than before.
I tried to stay out of his way. I spent hours in the library, pretending to read, or walking the garden where no one followed. The silence became a companion. But loneliness was louder than silence.
One evening, I walked past his office and heard voices. Male. Angry.
"I told you this was temporary," Zayn's voice snapped. "She means nothing to me. It's just a formality."
Something in my chest cracked.
I stepped away before he or his business partner saw me. My hands trembled as I closed the door to my room and sank to the floor.
I didn't expect love—not from him. But to be treated like nothing?
Was I really so unwanted?
A week later, we had our first real argument.
It started over dinner. He came home late and found me in the dining room.
"Why are you still here?"
"I live here," I said quietly.
"I told you, you don't need to pretend."
"And I told you, I'm not pretending." I stood up, my chair screeching behind me. "I didn't ask for this marriage either, Zayn. But I'm trying. You don't have to hate me for existing."
His eyes narrowed. "You think I hate you for no reason?"
"Is there a reason?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"You're a reminder of everything I didn't choose," he snapped. "This marriage, this life, this loss of freedom—your face is a reminder of all of it."
I swallowed hard. "Then look away."
He stared at me for a moment, like he wasn't expecting that response. His jaw tightened, but he didn't say another word. He walked away.
That night, I didn't cry. I stared at the ceiling until morning, a fire building in me.
If I was going to live in this house, I wasn't going to be invisible. I wasn't going to let him walk all over me. I had done nothing wrong except marry a man who already made up his mind to despise me.
But I still had a life to live.
Days turned into a strange pattern—cold mornings, silent meals, accidental meetings in the hallway. But something had shifted after our argument. I wasn't so quiet anymore. And he… watched me more.
He didn't speak, but sometimes I caught him glancing at me from across the room. When I tripped over a step in the garden, he was the first to catch me before I hit the ground.
"Careful," he said, eyes hard—but his hands gentle.
"Thanks," I whispered, and he walked away without replying.
That night, I found a blanket folded neatly on the armrest of my reading chair. No note. But I knew who had left it.
Zayn wasn't kind.
But he wasn't cruel, either.
He was confused. Angry. Trapped.
Just like me.
One morning, I woke to find a single cup of coffee outside my door. Still warm. I stared at it for minutes, unsure if it was a mistake.
Then the note slipped underneath my door.
**Don't be late. Family dinner tonight.
E**
Family dinner?
His mother?
I stared at the note like it might catch fire in my hands.
Whatever this was turning into, it was just beginning.
But for the first time… I wasn't entirely afraid.