Chapter 2

Upon arriving at Harry’s residence, a grand yet eerily silent mansion, Arabella was greeted by an elderly maid named Mrs. Mia. The woman bowed politely, but there was something odd in her gaze, as if she wanted to say something yet held herself back.

As Arabella stepped into Harry Anderson’s mansion, her eyes widened in awe at the opulence before her. Towering ceilings adorned with shimmering crystal chandeliers cast soft, golden reflections against the intricately carved walls. The air carried the rich scent of polished wood, mingled with the faint fragrance of white lilies arranged meticulously in porcelain vases along the corridor.

The cold marble floor gleamed beneath her feet, each step echoing through the vast, quiet space. Her gaze traveled to the sweeping red-carpeted staircase spiraling toward the upper floors, elegant and imposing, as if holding the weight of history in every step. To her right, she noticed an elevator, a modern addition amidst the mansion’s timeless grandeur.

Framed classical paintings adorned the walls, their gilded edges gleaming under the chandelier’s glow. Arabella swallowed hard. This world was nothing like her own—it was a realm of luxury and wealth that made her feel minuscule, as though she had stepped into a fairy tale with no clear ending. But she was no Cinderella, and her prince was nowhere near charming.

Beside her, Harry watched her reaction in silence. He knew how foreign this was to her, yet he said nothing.

“We have prepared a room for you, Mrs. Anderson,” Mrs. Mia announced softly, breaking Arabella’s reverie.

Arabella shook her head. “That won’t be necessary! I’ll stay with my husband. I’ll carry my own luggage.”

She refused Mrs. Mia’s help, accustomed to independence and doing things on her own. The maid frowned slightly, disapproving, but the girl was stubborn. She relented, allowing Arabella to make her way to the second floor, where Harry’s room was. Harry, however, had already ascended using the elevator, accompanied by his bodyguards.

With hesitant steps, Arabella dragged her suitcase through the vast hallway, following the maid’s instructions until she reached the last door at the end of the corridor.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked softly, a hint of anticipation in her touch. The door creaked open, and Harry appeared, his gaze as sharp as a blade.

Arabella faltered. What had she done wrong for her husband to look at her with such icy disdain? His presence exuded an intimidating aura.

She had forgotten, Harry Anderson was infamous as a ruthless CEO. And after the accident that left him paralyzed, he had only grown colder, his depression forging an even more merciless version of himself.

“Don’t ever step into my room! You’re just a contract wife! Sleep in the guest room!” Harry Anderson’s voice was cold and sharp, his eyes filled with disdain as he glared at Arabella—the young woman he had just married.  

Arabella stood frozen, her heart sinking at his cruel words. She had hoped, even if just a little, that Harry would treat her as his real wife despite their forced marriage. But reality shattered that hope in an instant.  

She blinked several times, struggling to comprehend his hostility. Her lips parted to respond, but before she could utter a word, the door slammed shut in her face. She had thought she could at least have a civil marriage, perhaps speak privately and discuss their future.

That night, conceding to the inevitable, Arabella retired to the guest room prepared by Mrs. Mia. She let out a soft sigh, finally understanding why the maid had insisted on setting up separate quarters for her. She and Harry were not meant to share a room.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she stared at the wedding ring on her finger, feeling an overwhelming emptiness. Outside, the wind howled, rustling the trees in the garden. A storm brewed—both in the sky and within her heart.

Tonight was supposed to be the first night of their marriage. She hadn’t harbored grand expectations, but she had hoped, at the very least, to build some form of understanding with Harry. Perhaps even friendship.

Or maybe, something more. To her, marriage was sacred—a lifelong commitment. Yet here she was, bound to a man who neither wanted nor loved her.

The Next Morning

Arabella awoke with a renewed sense of determination. Today marked her first morning living with her husband, and she was determined to make breakfast for Harry.

She ignored Mrs. Mia’s warning—that only the mansion’s chef prepared meals for him.

“I’m sure Harry will love my cooking. Breakfast is my specialty!” she murmured, brushing off the anger from the previous night. She didn’t take his outburst to heart, understanding that sick people could be irritable and short-tempered.

Arabella carefully arranged the breakfast tray, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips. But the moment she placed it before Harry, her hopes were shattered.

His expression darkened with fury, and with a swift, forceful motion, he knocked the tray off the table.

The porcelain cup shattered, coffee spilling across the pristine marble. Toast landed on the floor, and orange juice soaked the expensive carpet.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he snapped, his voice laced with venom. “I don’t eat anything you make! I only eat what the mansion’s chef prepares!”

Arabella froze. Her chest tightened, her eyes stinging, but she willed herself not to cry. It wasn’t just the insult that hurt, it was his refusal to even try opening his heart to her.