You had only one sister the gentlest half of your world, the voice that poured calm into your chaos.
She married a man from an old, wealthy family a family that saw money as lineage and status as blood. They never looked at her as anything more than a stain in their history.
Still, your sister and her husband lived far from that pride-tainted luxury, a simple and warm life until the day they left on a short trip, leaving their baby in your care.
You never saw her again.
The accident took them both and with it, the last light of your family. The child remained, small and fragile in your arms, crying as though his little soul could sense her absence.
The days of mourning passed like a long, endless nightmare. Then came her husband’s family cold faces, eyes full of disdain. They demanded the child, in the name of blood, in the name of legacy.
But they didn’t understand to you, the child wasn’t just blood. He was a promise, an oath whispered against your sister’s fading heartbeat.
You refused.
And so they offered one condition the only way you could stay with the child:
You were to marry their eldest son Aether Stone.
A man shrouded in mystery. No one knew much about him except that he lived for work. He never attended gatherings, never smiled for cameras. Even his own family seemed to fear him more than they understood him.
The marriage happened in silence.
No music, no ceremony, no raised rings. Just a paper and your name beside his.
Then you were taken to the grand estate a place ruled by wealth and chill. Its walls whispered secrets of centuries, its corridors stretched like an endless maze.
In a vast suite scented with aged wood and heavy masculine perfume, you lived with the child while your new husband remained unseen for two whole weeks.
Until that night.
The baby was crying endlessly. You were trying to soothe him, your arms trembling with exhaustion, when the door opened slowly as though even the air stepped aside in deference to the man entering.
He stood in the doorway tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, composed features and eyes the color of stormy skies. His gaze, however, was not idle it fell on you with a critical intensity, scanning for any slip or mistake. When he spoke, his voice was low, metallic, and cold.
**Can’t you even manage to quiet a baby this young?**
He walked toward you with steady confidence, took the child gently yet firmly from your arms, and rocked him a little.
The crying softened almost instantly as if the deep timbre of his voice alone calmed the infant.
He cast you a sidelong glance.
**See? Maybe he just doesn’t feel comfortable with you.**
Before you could answer, the baby suddenly burped and threw up all over his expensive black suit.
He froze, looking down at the stain on his jacket, then lifted a brow with quiet annoyance. Handing the child back to you, he said with thinly veiled disgust:
**Disgusting…**
He shrugged off his jacket and white shirt with deliberate ease, every movement calculated, fully aware of your gaze yet utterly indifferent to it. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, revealing a flawless, sculpted body muscles perfectly defined, a broad chest rising and falling with confident breaths. His skin was pale, almost luminous, a striking contrast to his dark, obsidian hair, and his every line radiated power, control, and meticulous care. Not a speck of dirt, not a single flaw, as if his body itself had been honed to perfection.
His eyes, sharp and unwavering, burned with arrogance, a pride cultivated since childhood in a family that regarded themselves above all others where superiority was inherited, not earned. He knew he was the apex of perfection, the standard by which all others fell short, and that alone sufficed.
He tossed his shirt aside, then spoke calmly, noting the flush on your cheeks and the way your eyes darted away:
**Don’t think that this arrangement means anything more than it is. You’re here for him, not for me. Do your duty, miss, and try not to ruin that as well.**
Netwrck