Emily
The next 24 hours blurred into a fairytale. The wedding was breathtaking in its simplicity, yet dazzling in its elegance. The media feasted on our story: the billionaire and the rising political strategist—an unstoppable duo. Social platforms buzzed with hashtags of our names, dissecting our every move, praising our love story like it was something out of a romance novel.
It felt unreal. Like I had walked into someone else's life.
My fresh start.
My perfect life.
Or so I thought.
Tudor stood behind the glass wall of our newly acquired mansion, his silhouette majestic against the glow of the moonlight. I still remember the day he surprised me with it—my jaw had practically hit the floor.
He had told me he had a "small surprise," and boom—it turned out to be this. A mansion. With floor-to-ceiling glass walls that offered panoramic views of the ocean. This was his definition of small? I often wonder how a billionaire's mind works. I giggled to myself just remembering it. Not only had he gifted me a mansion, but also a sleek, midnight-black BMW with my initials engraved on the seats. That man! I squealed internally. He's such a romantic.
The night we got married was the same night we moved in. It was magical, surreal. I had felt like a queen. But as fate would have it, that bliss was short-lived. Tudor had left the very next morning for an urgent business trip in the city. He was gone for two whole weeks. Two long, lonely, torturous weeks.
Tonight marked the second night he was home. And I was determined to make it memorable.
I stood a few steps behind him, watching him sip his scotch, his other hand resting lightly against the glass. His stance was casual, but even in stillness, he radiated power. His biceps flexed as he lifted the glass, and I caught myself biting my lower lip. Damn. He was carved like a Greek god. The man was a gym rat and it showed. His fitted shirt clung to every inch of toned muscle—his thighs, his broad shoulders, his tapered waist. Even his calves were sexy. How is that even fair?
His dark, curly hair framed his chiseled jaw, slightly tousled from the evening breeze sneaking through the slightly open window. I could already imagine threading my fingers through those curls, pulling him toward me, feeling his breath against mine. My skin tingled just thinking about it.
Tonight had to be the night. Since our wedding, we hadn't made love—not once. Not a kiss, not even a passionate touch. Nothing. I knew he had been stressed about work, but I was his wife. I needed him. Craved him.
I took a deep breath, adjusted the silky red lingerie I wore, making sure it sat just right against my curves. My robe had already started slipping off my shoulders, exposing a teasing amount of cleavage—just the way he liked it.
Careful not to make a sound, I crept up behind him, wrapped my arms gently around his waist, and pressed my body against his back.
But the moment I touched him… everything shattered.
Tudor jolted forward violently, nearly spilling his drink. "What the f**k do you think you're doing?"
My heart stilled.
What?
I blinked rapidly, confusion clouding my thoughts. "T-Tudor?"
He turned around slowly, and for the first time since we met, his eyes didn't hold warmth. They were hard, cold. Distant.
"What is wrong with you, Millie?" he snapped.
His voice sliced through me like a knife.
I stepped back instinctively, my arms dropping to my sides. "What do you mean? I just… I wanted to be close to you. We haven't—"
He cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Jesus. Do I look like I'm in the mood for this right now? My company is under pressure, Millie. My investors are breathing down my neck. And you think now's the time to play dress-up and seduce me?"
I stared at him in disbelief. "I'm your wife. And we haven't touched each other in two weeks. I miss you. I need you."
I reached for him again, but he recoiled as though my touch was poison.
"You're my wife," he said, his tone clipped, "which is exactly why you should understand boundaries."
Boundaries?
He turned and walked away, downing the rest of his scotch and setting the glass on the side table with a loud clink.
"I'm exhausted," he said without turning back. "I need sleep. Not this nonsense."
I stood there, frozen. My throat tightened as I fought the sting behind my eyes. He peeled off his shirt and tossed it on the armchair, revealing his flawless torso. Normally, the sight would've made my knees weak. Tonight, it only made me feel invisible.
He got into bed, facing the opposite wall.
I stared at the back of his head for a few moments before reaching for the glass he had abandoned. I lifted it to my lips and emptied it in one gulp. The burn of the alcohol offered a brief distraction from the pain rising in my chest.
Maybe he really was stressed. Maybe his business was falling apart. I had seen the news, the rumors swirling about his company. Maybe this wasn't about me.
I tried to convince myself.
I untied my robe, letting it fall softly to the floor, and climbed onto the bed slowly.
But before I could lie next to him, his voice—sharp and venomous—stopped me cold.
"What do you think you're doing now?"
I froze. My heart dropped.
"I… I'm getting into bed," I said softly, confused.
He turned to face me, his eyes filled with disdain. "I don't share my bed."
I let out a shaky laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "Tudor, I'm your wife. What are you saying?"
He stared at me blankly, then spoke words I will never forget.
"Even if you were the last woman on Earth, I wouldn't share a bed with you." His voice was low, deliberate. "Now get your shit and leave my room."
For a moment, I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
The woman he had married. The woman he had kissed in front of the world. The woman who thought she'd finally found happiness.
And yet, I lay there—bare, heartbroken, and discarded.
I gathered my robe silently, holding back tears as I walked to the guest room.
In that moment, I realized the fairytale was over.
And the nightmare had just begun.