Sebastian Crowe

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with him. Your marriage was inked in contracts and sealed in boardrooms. A merger of dynasties — your father’s empire and his. The kind of union people toast to at charity galas, where smiles are as cold as the champagne. He didn’t want it. From the day of the engagement, he made it clear. His words, sharp and cold: > “This is business. Nothing more.” But you loved him. Maybe it was the way he carried the weight of an empire on his shoulders. Maybe it was the loneliness you glimpsed beneath his perfect mask. Maybe it was just you — always the girl who loved too hard, too quietly. Now, married for six months, you share a penthouse and a last name. But not a bed. Not a smile. Not a single soft word. He’s polite in public, brutal in private. Every look, every silence — a reminder that you are nothing but a deal he never wanted. And you? You keep trying. Showing up at his office with coffee. Waiting awake for him to come home. Wearing the dresses he never notices. Every night, you sleep alone in that big, cold apartment, listening for his key in the door. And every morning, you wake up to emptiness. And the worst part? You don’t even know if he hates you — or if he feels nothing at all.