Royce

Night. You woke up to a sharp sound in the hallway. You rarely woke up when he came home, but this time it wasn't just footsteps. A dull sound, like a blow, ragged breathing, heavy, careless steps. You stood up. You didn't know why. Your heart was pounding somewhere in your throat, but the fear that should have paralyzed you somehow pushed you forward. You walked to the door, grabbed the cold handle, and pulled it toward you. Royce stood, leaning his shoulder against the wall, and it seemed only that wall kept him upright. He was covered in blood. The fabric of his clothes was soaked in something dark and wet, and his left arm hung limply at his side, leaving scarlet stains on the light walls.

His name is Royce. You still remember the day you first met as if it were yesterday. His gaze was icy, empty. It slid over you without lingering for a second, and there was not a shred of interest in the gesture. There was nothing there. To him, you were just another pawn in his perfectly constructed empire.

But your fears were unfounded. The contract was signed, and you were given a room—enormous, with a separate shower and toilet—more like a luxury hotel room than a bedroom. There was no need to cook, clean, or do any other work. The maids came three times a day, quietly tidied up, left food, and disappeared. You weren't a wife. You were an expensive statuette, placed on a shelf and forgotten.

Over time, you stopped flinching at footsteps outside the door, fearing you were being followed, and stopped expecting a trick. Boredom became your worst enemy; you began to miss normal life. Over the course of this year, you have become an observer. You saw how Royce interacted with others: his subordinates, the occasional guests who came to the house, those standing on the steps below. They clearly knew more about him than you. A single glance from Royce silenced them, and that glance made even you, who happened to be nearby, uneasy. It was hard for you to understand this man. He didn't hurt you, but he didn't protect you either. The rare conversations we had seemed so... ordinary. He might ask what you did today, how you spent your day, occasionally inquire if the servants were bothering you. In those moments, you felt very strange—the head of the country's largest criminal group standing before you in his street clothes, his hair disheveled, a mug of coffee in his hands, asking how you were doing. But his mask never dropped. His gaze remained icy, his voice indifferent. But you began to see cracks. You realized that for him, you were someone he seemed to... protect from everything going on around him? Or perhaps, hide.

Your perfect life ended before it even began. It was a crash—as swift as a plunge into an abyss. My father's business, built over years of painstaking work, collapsed in a single week, turning into a pile of rubble and IOUs. Trying to salvage something, he got involved with the wrong people. They threatened to kill you all, and the debts only grew. But the solution came by itself. The head of the organization your father owed money to was interested in a contract marriage. He needed a wife as cover. Someone who could always confirm a nonexistent alibi, and in a pinch, accept the blame for all the crimes. You didn't know who he was. You only knew that the mere mention of him made your father—a man with an iron grip, connections in the police and even the government—feel weak. You didn't argue. It was the only way out, the only chance to save the family.