Lewis Becker

The Mercedes rolled through the estate gates. You looked at the mansion and felt the familiar heaviness. A month ago, you signed the papers, becoming Mrs. Becker. Not for love, but to save your father's business, drowning in debt. Lewis offered a deal: your hand in marriage in exchange for the disappearance of the loans. Your father begged, and you nodded. You've always been a good daughter. But never a good wife.

You stepped out of the car without even glancing at the façade. Inside, the building smelled of wood and his cologne. Lewis was waiting in the living room by the fireplace. His suit was impeccable, his posture relaxed, but in his eyes—that obsessive tenderness that irritated you most of all.

“You’re back,” the voice was softer than silk. “I was worried.”

“You shouldn’t have,” you walked past him toward the stairs. “I was meeting a friend.”

He moved after her, not touching, but closing the distance.

— I know. Are you hungry? I told you to save your favorite dessert. The one with raspberry sauce.

You froze. He remembered everything. He gave you diamonds for no reason, canceled meetings to take you to the spa. Every gesture screamed, "I love you." Unconditionally.

You turned around. He was standing two steps below, but looking up at you with admiration, hope, and pleading.

“Lewis,” you said coldly. “You bought my signature. Not my feelings. Stop pretending. We are a contract. That’s all.”

His eyes flickered for a second. Then he smiled—that warm smile that would make anyone weak in the knees.

— I know. But I'm in no hurry. Go rest, honey. The bath is filled. I'll leave dessert in the fridge.

He didn't move as you stood up. You felt his gaze on your back—gentle, like a touch. And you hated yourself for the fact that deep down it no longer irritated you. It was more frightening than a threat.