His Wifey &His Husband

My name is Mael Viremont, and unfortunately, my family believes I am at an age where I should stop behaving like an irresponsible bastard and start acting like a respectable adult.

Personally, I think they're confusing adulthood with a terminal illness.

I'm twenty-five, financially comfortable, reasonably intelligent, and perfectly capable of managing the family business when I actually feel like doing so. I enjoy expensive bikes, late-night rides, good parties, and the company of people who don't ask me when I'm getting married. That last category has become increasingly difficult to find.

Fortunately, I have my friends.

Three idiots, each with their own questionable life choices, who have somehow managed to tolerate me for years. They're currently riding behind me, probably wondering why I'd dragged them out this early. I could have explained the situation over breakfast, but watching their faces when they found out seemed far more entertaining.

The reason I'm riding a bike today is simple.

I'm going to meet my ex-fiancé.

Yes, you read that correctly. Ex-fiancé.

Seven years ago, our families decided that we weren't suitable for each other anymore and called off the engagement. I was perfectly happy with that decision. In fact, I remember thinking it was one of the few sensible things our families had ever done.

Apparently, the universe disagrees.

Because today, I'm going to the Ordelune residence to discuss marrying Vaelis Ordelune.

Not getting engaged. Not promising to consider marriage sometime in the distant future.

Marrying.

My father had presented the conditions with the sort of calm expression people usually reserve for discussing the weather. If I wanted my inheritance, the marriage had to happen. The details were apparently negotiable, but the marriage itself wasn't.

My response had been, naturally, You've got to be fucking kidding me.

They weren't.

So here I was, riding toward the home of a man I hadn't properly seen in years, preparing to become his husband for the sake of money.

I had absolutely no intention of falling in love with him. I wasn't going to pretend to be a devoted husband, change my lifestyle, or offer him some ridiculous promise of forever. I planned to make everything perfectly clear from the beginning.

If Vaelis had any sense, he'd refuse to marry me.

And if he didn't, well, that would be his problem.

I accelerated, the engine roaring beneath me as the road opened ahead.

Behind me, one of my friends honked his horn.

I glanced at the mirror and grinned.

Let the family reunion begin.

By the time we reached the Ordelune estate, I had already decided that I hated this entire arrangement.

The estate itself wasn't helping.

The iron gates stood tall beneath the grey afternoon sky, their intricate design bearing the Ordelune crest. Beyond them stretched a long driveway lined with old trees, their branches swaying in the cold wind. The main residence stood at the end, an enormous stone mansion with tall windows, pale walls, and the sort of architecture that made you feel underdressed even before you stepped inside.

I'd been here once as a child. I remembered running through the gardens with other children while our parents discussed business over dinner. I remembered a boy with an unusually serious expression who'd sat beside a fountain, reading a book instead of joining us.

Vaelis.

I couldn't remember what we'd talked about. I wasn't even sure we'd talked much at all. Our engagement had been a decision made by adults, and at that age, marriage had sounded about as relevant to me as the stock market.

Then he'd been kidnapped.

The news had spread through our families quickly. Seven days in captivity, followed by a return that changed everything. The engagement was called off not long afterward. I hadn't questioned the decision. I was young, and frankly, relieved that I wouldn't have to marry someone simply because our families had signed a few documents.

Now, seven years later, those same documents had somehow found their way back into my life.

I pulled up before the gates and stopped my bike. My friends came to a halt behind me, their engines falling silent one after another.

"Tell me again why we're here," one of them said, removing his helmet. "Because I distinctly remember you saying this was going to be a quick visit, and people don't usually bring an entourage for a quick visit."

"Maybe I missed you," I replied, taking off my gloves.

He stared at me. "I'd rather believe you're dying."

"That's touching. I'll put you in charge of my funeral arrangements."

"Only if I get your bike."

"You can have my debts."

"Fuck you."

I laughed and turned towards the gates, where a security guard was already approaching us. He looked at our bikes, then at our faces, his expression professional but cautious.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I ask the purpose of your visit?"

"Mael Viremont. I'm expected."

The guard's expression changed slightly at my surname. He glanced at the tablet in his hand, tapped the screen, and nodded.

"Of course, Mr. Viremont. We've been informed of your arrival. Your companions may accompany you, but I'll need their names for the visitor register."

I looked over my shoulder at my friends. "You heard him. Behave yourselves."

"You're the last person who should be giving that instruction," one of them muttered.

I ignored him.

The gates opened, and we rode through.

The driveway seemed longer than I remembered. Perhaps it was the years, or perhaps I was simply becoming increasingly aware that I was heading towards a marriage I didn't want. Either way, I wasn't in a hurry to arrive.

When we finally reached the mansion, several staff members were waiting near the entrance. One of them approached to take our helmets while another informed us that the family representative would receive us in the drawing room.

"The family representative?" I repeated.

"Yes, sir."

"And Vaelis?"

The man hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was subtle, but I noticed.

"Mr. Ordelune has been informed that you've arrived."

That wasn't an answer, but I decided not to push it. If the man wanted to make a mystery out of a simple meeting, he was welcome to do so.

We followed him inside.

The entrance hall was enormous, with a marble staircase curving upwards beneath a chandelier that probably cost more than my first car. Everything was immaculate, from the polished floors to the paintings hanging along the walls. Yet the house felt strangely empty. There were no family photographs on the tables, no casual clutter, no signs that anyone actually lived here.

It looked less like a home and more like a place that had been preserved for visitors.

My friend leaned towards me as we followed the staff member down a corridor.

"Are you sure someone lives here?"

"Unless the furniture has recently learned to pay taxes, yes."

"I'm serious, Mael."

"So am I."

We entered the drawing room, where a fire burned quietly in the fireplace. The staff member asked us to wait before leaving through a side door.

I took the opportunity to examine the room. Expensive paintings, antique furniture, books arranged with almost mathematical precision. There was a tea service on a low table, untouched, and a large window overlooking the gardens.

Then I noticed the absence of photographs again.

"Something's off," I said.

My friends looked at me.

"With the house," I clarified. "It's too quiet."

"Maybe he's a private person."

"Maybe. Or maybe everyone here is afraid of disturbing him."

I had barely finished speaking when the door opened.

A man entered first, dressed in a dark suit. He looked to be in his fifties, with silver beginning to show at his temples. His expression was polite, though his eyes moved over all four of us with the careful attention of someone who had learned not to take strangers at face value.

"Mr. Viremont. I'm pleased you could come."

I stood and offered my hand. "I was told the meeting was important."

"It is. I'm Ordelune's solicitor, Mr. Armand. I've been handling the family's affairs for some time."

That explained the absence of the parents. It didn't explain why I was being greeted by a lawyer instead of my future husband.

I shook his hand and gestured towards my friends. "They insisted on coming. I hope that's not a problem."

"Not at all. Mr. Ordelune has agreed to receive them as well."

Interesting.

I settled back into my chair. "Then perhaps we should get to the point. I'm sure you're aware that our families have already cancelled this engagement once. I would prefer not to spend the afternoon pretending that the past seven years haven't happened."

Mr. Armand folded his hands.

"Mr. Ordelune is aware of the circumstances surrounding your visit. He has also been informed of the terms proposed by your family."

"And what does he think of them?"

"That is something he would prefer to discuss with you personally."

I let out a quiet breath through my nose.

Of course. Nothing could ever be straightforward.

"Fine. Where is he?"

The solicitor glanced towards the door.

"He's coming."

I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and prepared myself for the reunion.

I had a speech ready. It was concise, honest, and designed to make one thing perfectly clear: I was not going to be the husband anyone dreamed of.

All I needed was for Vaelis Ordelune to walk through that door.

And then we could get this ridiculous marriage over with.

The door opened again, but the man who entered wasn't what I'd expected.

For one thing, he didn't look at me.

He stepped into the drawing room with a thin folder tucked beneath his arm, his attention moving briefly over the furniture, the fireplace, and the tea service on the table. His gaze lingered on the curtains as though he'd noticed something wrong with them, then shifted towards the windows. Only after completing this quiet inspection did he acknowledge the people waiting for him.

His eyes passed over Mr. Armand first, then me, and finally my friends.

He didn't look surprised to see us. If anything, he appeared mildly inconvenienced by the number of people occupying his drawing room.

He was dressed in a cream-coloured shirt and dark trousers, with his sleeves buttoned neatly at the wrists. His pale hair fell across his forehead in a way that suggested he'd either combed it himself without much interest in the result or had deliberately arranged it to look careless. He was handsome, certainly, but not in the polished, camera-friendly way I'd expected from someone belonging to a family like his. There was something unusual about his face, an almost delicate quality that contrasted with the sharpness of his eyes.

Vaelis Ordelune.

My childhood fiancé.

The man glanced at the chairs, selected the one nearest the window, and sat down. He placed his folder on the table, opened it, and began reading.

Nobody spoke.

I looked at Mr. Armand.

Mr. Armand looked at Vaelis.

Vaelis turned a page.

I glanced at my friends. One of them had raised his eyebrows so high that I was worried they'd disappear into his hairline.

"Is he going to acknowledge us?" he murmured.

"I believe we're witnessing a rare species of social interaction," I whispered back. "Try not to frighten it."

Unfortunately, Vaelis had excellent hearing.

"I can hear you," he said without looking up.

My friend straightened immediately.

"Wonderful," I replied. "That saves us the introductions."

Vaelis continued reading.

Mr. Armand cleared his throat. "Vaelis, your guests have arrived."

"Yes, I can see that."

He turned another page, made a small note in the margin, and only then lifted his head. His expression brightened into a pleasant little smile that somehow managed to make me more suspicious than if he'd glared at us.

"I don't dirty things," he announced.

I blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

Vaelis tilted his head towards the floor.

For the first time since entering, I followed his gaze properly. The soles of our shoes were damp from the garden path, and the expensive polished floor beneath us bore several muddy marks. One of my friends had left a particularly impressive streak near the entrance.

Vaelis looked at the marks, then at our shoes.

His smile remained perfectly pleasant.

"Your shoes are dirty," he explained. "And now my floor is dirty. I don't like dirty things."

There was a moment of silence.

My friend looked down at his feet as if they had betrayed him personally.

"We walked in from outside," I said. "That's generally what shoes are for."

"Then you should have wiped them."

"There was a mat at the entrance."

"Clearly, it wasn't enough."

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, with the same calm expression someone might use to discuss an appointment, he asked Mr. Armand, "Are all the maids and servants dead along with my family, or has everyone simply decided that cleaning is beneath them now?"

Mr. Armand went visibly still.

One of my friends made a strangled noise beside me. I wasn't sure whether he was trying not to laugh or had suddenly developed a medical condition.

"Vaelis," the solicitor said carefully, "the staff are very much alive."

"Then why is my floor dirty?"

"They were not aware that you would be receiving visitors in this room."

Vaelis looked genuinely puzzled by that explanation.

"They live in this house. They know where the rooms are. They know how doors work. What exactly did they think was going to happen when people came inside?"

"Perhaps we could discuss the matter after—"

"No, I would like to discuss it now. I don't understand why everyone keeps making simple things complicated."

He looked towards the door and raised his voice slightly.

"Could someone please come here?"

A maid appeared almost immediately. She was a middle-aged woman in a dark uniform, and the moment she saw the floor, her expression tightened with alarm.

"Yes, sir?"

"Please have this cleaned. And bring indoor footwear for our guests. Their shoes are dirty, and I don't want them walking around the house like that."

"Of course, sir. I'll arrange it immediately."

"And please bring something suitable. I don't want slippers that have been worn by someone else."

"Yes, sir."

She disappeared so quickly that I suspected she'd been waiting just outside.

Vaelis returned his attention to his papers.

That was it.

No apology for the insult, no attempt to smooth over the awkwardness, and not the slightest indication that he understood how strange this interaction had been. He simply continued reading while the rest of us sat there, trying to work out whether we'd been invited to a marriage discussion or summoned for an inspection.

I leaned forward.

"Do you always greet people this way?"

"Only when they bring dirt into my house."

"And if they don't?"

"Then I usually have no reason to complain about their shoes."

One of my friends coughed into his fist.

I ignored him. "You know who I am, don't you?"

Vaelis finally looked at me properly.

"Mael Viremont."

"Good. I was beginning to worry that the family had forgotten my existence."

"I haven't forgotten your existence. I simply didn't have anything to say to you yet."

"How considerate."

"You're welcome."

I pressed my lips together.

This was going to be a long afternoon.

The maid returned carrying a tray with several pairs of clean indoor shoes. Behind her came another staff member with a mop and cleaning supplies. They worked quickly, removing the muddy marks while the maid arranged the footwear beside us.

Vaelis watched until the last mark disappeared.

Only then did he close his folder.

"You may change your shoes now," he told us.

I looked at the clean footwear, then at him.

"You're serious."

"Entirely."

"Do you expect us to change shoes in the middle of a marriage meeting?"

"I expect you not to dirty my floor. Changing your shoes seems like a reasonable way to accomplish that."

I had met people with peculiar habits before. Wealthy people, in particular, could develop some remarkably elaborate ideas about how the world ought to function. But there was something different about Vaelis. He wasn't performing eccentricity for attention, nor did he seem interested in whether we found him amusing. He genuinely considered this a perfectly ordinary request.

And, to my growing irritation, I couldn't find a convincing argument against the basic principle.

The floor was clean now. The footwear was right there. Changing would take less than a minute.

I removed my shoes.

My friends followed suit, although one of them muttered something under his breath about the Ordelunes being a family of lunatics.

Vaelis looked up.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," my friend replied.

"That's unfortunate. I thought you might have something interesting to say."

"I was just saying your house is very clean."

"Thank you. I prefer it that way."

He returned to his papers, apparently satisfied.

I slipped into the indoor shoes and settled back into my chair. For a few seconds, I watched him work. He was reviewing several documents at once, moving between pages with quick, precise gestures. Every so often, he wrote something in the margin or marked a paragraph with a small tab. His concentration was complete enough that he seemed to have forgotten our presence again.

I found myself wondering how long he intended to keep us waiting.

Then he spoke without looking up.

"You're planning to marry me for the inheritance."

The room went quiet.

Mr. Armand closed his eyes briefly, as though he'd been expecting this and had been hoping, against all reason, that Vaelis might wait another five minutes.

I looked at my fiancé.

He was still reading.

"That's a rather direct way to begin a conversation," I said.

"I dislike wasting time."

"So I've noticed."

"Is it true?"

I could have lied. I could have offered some polished explanation about family obligations, the restoration of our childhood engagement, or the advantages of bringing our families together. But I had no intention of pretending this marriage was something it wasn't.

"Yes," I said. "My family has made the inheritance conditional on our marriage. I agreed because I want the money. I'm not going to lie to you about that."

Vaelis made a small mark on the paper.

"Good."

I waited.

He turned the page.

"Good?" I repeated.

"Yes. I dislike people who lie when the truth would be perfectly adequate."

I studied him for a moment, trying to decide whether he was mocking me. His expression gave nothing away.

"And you?" I asked. "Are you agreeing to this marriage for the sake of your family?"

"No."

That answer came so quickly that I almost missed it.

"Then why?"

"Because I want to."

I stared at him.

He finally put down his pen and regarded me with an expression of mild curiosity, as if he couldn't understand why I found his answer surprising.

"I was under the impression that marriage required two people to agree," he continued. "You have agreed. I have agreed. Our families have made a mess of the arrangements, but the actual decision isn't particularly complicated."

"You don't even know me."

"Neither do you know me."

"That's my point."

"Then we agree on something already."

My friend beside me shifted in his chair. I could practically feel him enjoying my discomfort.

I leaned back and studied Vaelis more carefully.

I'd come here expecting an isolated, damaged man who would either be too frightened to challenge me or too desperate to preserve his family's position to object to anything I said. I'd planned to make my intentions clear, perhaps even cruelly so, and leave him with enough reasons to reject me.

Instead, I was sitting in a spotless drawing room wearing borrowed indoor shoes while my future husband calmly explained that he wanted to marry me, despite knowing I was only interested in his inheritance.

And somehow, I was the one who felt as though I'd walked into the wrong house.

Vaelis reopened his folder.

"Now, if you've finished examining me, I have some documents I'd like you to read."

I glanced at the papers.

"What documents?"

"The marriage agreement."

I looked at Mr. Armand. He looked as though he would have preferred to be anywhere else in the world.

Then I looked back at Vaelis.

He smiled at me again, that same pleasant, infuriating smile.

"I thought it would be sensible to discuss the terms before we get married, Mael. After all, if we're going to be husbands, we should at least understand what we've agreed to."

For the first time that afternoon, I began to suspect that frightening Vaelis Ordelune into cancelling our marriage might be considerably more difficult than I'd anticipated.

I looked at the documents Vaelis pushed towards me.

There were considerably more pages than I had expected. The first few appeared to be ordinary legal agreements, followed by financial disclosures, property arrangements, and several documents bearing the Ordelune family seal. I flipped through them, wondering whether the man had prepared for our marriage or was planning to acquire a small country.

"How many pages are there?" I asked.

"One hundred and forty-three."

I stopped turning pages.

"You're joking."

"No."

"One hundred and forty-three pages for a marriage?"

"Some of them concern the transfer of assets. The marriage itself is only part of the arrangement."

I glanced at Mr. Armand. "Does he always do this?"

"Do what, Mr. Viremont?"

"Prepare for a wedding as though he's negotiating the surrender of a hostile nation."

Vaelis looked up from his own copy. "If you think one hundred and forty-three pages are excessive, you should see the original settlement. It was nearly four hundred."

My friend let out a low whistle.

I rubbed my forehead. "Wonderful. I'm marrying a man who considers paperwork a recreational activity."

"I'm marrying a man who apparently doesn't read before complaining," Vaelis replied. "Perhaps we'll balance each other out."

I couldn't help laughing at that. It was brief, but genuine. Vaelis didn't seem particularly interested in whether I'd found him amusing. He merely turned another page and pointed towards the section I'd been holding upside down.

"You're reading the annexure."

"I know what I'm reading."

"Then you should know it's upside down."

I turned the document around.

Behind me, one of my friends made a suspicious coughing sound.

I decided that if I murdered him, the inheritance might be enough to cover the legal expenses.

"Fine," I said, pulling the papers closer. "Let's see what else you've prepared for my unfortunate future."

"Several things," Vaelis said. "Starting with the household rules."

That caught my attention.

I read the first clause.

Then I read it again.

All persons entering the principal residence must wear gloves when handling household objects.

I lowered the paper.

"Gloves?"

"Yes."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone."

"Even when touching a chair?"

"If you need to touch the chair, yes."

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. It never came.

"And why, exactly, does a chair require gloves?"

"Because hands carry dirt, oils, and other things that don't belong on my furniture. Black marks are particularly difficult to remove from pale surfaces."

I looked around the drawing room. The furniture was immaculate, the pale upholstery completely free of stains. Even the bookshelves seemed to have been polished within an inch of their lives.

"Do you wear gloves all the time?"

"No. I'm not handling the furniture all the time."

One of my friends turned away, his shoulders shaking.

I shot him a warning look before returning to Vaelis. "And what happens if someone forgets?"

"There's a cleaning fee."

"A cleaning fee?"

"Yes. The amount depends on what has been damaged."

"Suppose I accidentally touch a table without gloves?"

"Then I would expect you to apologise and have it cleaned."

"And if I refuse?"

Vaelis considered that for a moment.

"Then I would expect you to behave like an adult and stop refusing over something so simple."

My friend finally lost the battle and laughed aloud.

Vaelis turned towards him. "Is something amusing?"

"No," my friend said, still grinning. "I'm just learning a great deal about married life."

"That's good. You might find it useful someday."

I pressed my lips together. The little bastard had an answer for everything.

I continued reading.

No outdoor footwear beyond the designated entrance area. No food in the bedrooms. No unapproved visitors in the private wing. No rearranging furniture without permission. Certain rooms were to remain undisturbed, and household staff were required to follow a strict cleaning schedule.

I could understand the general idea. The details, however, suggested that Vaelis would notice a fingerprint on a glass from three rooms away and remember who had left it there.

"Do you have any rules that don't involve cleaning?" I asked.

"Of course."

I turned the page.

The next clause concerned physical contact.

I read it silently, then looked at him.

"You're not to be touched without your consent."

"Correct."

"Not even by your husband?"

"Especially not by someone who believes marriage gives him ownership of my body."

His voice hadn't changed, but something in his expression had become more definite. The earlier amusement disappeared, leaving behind a cool, unwavering stare.

I held his gaze for a moment before nodding.

"Fair enough."

He seemed satisfied with that answer and returned to his papers.

I had no intention of touching someone who didn't want me to. It wasn't a difficult rule to follow, and I appreciated that he'd stated it plainly rather than expecting me to guess.

Then I reached the next section.

I read the heading.

I read the paragraph beneath it.

Then I looked at Vaelis.

"Absolutely not."

He blinked. "You haven't even read the entire clause."

"I've read enough."

"Then perhaps you should read the rest before deciding."

I placed the paper on the table and pointed at the sentence I'd just encountered.

The married couple shall share a bedroom and sleep in the same bed. In the absence of the husband, a designated member of the household staff must remain beside Vaelis Ordelune until morning.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

"Explain," I said.

Vaelis folded his hands on the table. "I don't like sleeping alone."

"That much I gathered."

"I have tried sleeping with a body pillow. It doesn't work."

I looked at him, wondering whether I'd heard him correctly.

"A body pillow?"

"Yes. They're quite useless, actually. They don't move, they don't speak, and they don't have a heartbeat. I can tell the difference."

One of my friends leaned towards the other and whispered, "He's been married to a pillow and divorced it before even meeting the groom."

I heard them. So did Vaelis.

"The pillow wasn't particularly good company," he said matter-of-factly.

My friend covered his mouth.

I leaned forward, trying to determine whether Vaelis was deliberately winding us up. His expression suggested he was discussing the weather.

"So let me understand this," I said. "You expect me to share a bed with you every night?"

"Yes."

"And if I'm away?"

"Someone else will need to sleep beside me."

"Someone else?"

"A member of the staff. We already have a schedule."

He said it so casually that I momentarily forgot what I was going to ask next.

"You have a schedule?"

"Of course. Do you think people can simply rearrange their lives at the last minute because I happen to be unable to sleep?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

Vaelis picked up another sheet.

"Mrs. Bell usually takes Monday and Thursday nights. Thomas takes Tuesday, although he prefers to finish his rounds before coming upstairs. Elena takes Wednesday and Sunday, and Martin covers Friday and Saturday unless he's on leave. If someone is unavailable, the housekeeper arranges a replacement."

There was a short, stunned silence.

My friend leaned close to my ear.

"Mate," he whispered, "you haven't even got married yet, and there's already a queue for your side of the bed."

The other one murmured, "Forget the inheritance. You might be the first groom in history to receive a green hat before the wedding."

I turned my head slowly towards them.

"Would either of you like to explain that joke to Vaelis?"

Both immediately became fascinated by the carpet.

Unfortunately, Vaelis had already heard enough to look up.

"What is a green hat?"

"Nothing," I said.

"It clearly means something."

"It means my friends are idiots."

"That much is evident. But what does it mean?"

Mr. Armand intervened before I could invent an answer.

"Perhaps I should clarify the arrangement," he said, adjusting the documents in front of him. "The clause is not intended to suggest anything improper, Mr. Viremont. Vaelis has experienced considerable difficulty sleeping alone since the incident seven years ago. He has attempted several alternatives, including weighted blankets, body pillows, and sleeping in rooms with the lights on. None has been consistently effective."

Vaelis frowned. "The weighted blanket was too hot."

"Yes," Mr. Armand agreed patiently. "As you have mentioned on several occasions."

"It was."

"I understand."

Mr. Armand turned back to me.

"The presence of another person helps Vaelis feel secure enough to sleep. It is not a romantic or sexual arrangement with the staff. They are there to provide reassurance and remain available if he wakes in distress. The household has established a rota with the staff members' agreement, and they are compensated for the additional responsibility."

I glanced towards Vaelis.

He was examining the corner of one of his documents, apparently unimpressed by the need to explain himself.

"So you need someone physically present while you sleep," I said.

"Yes."

"And you're asking your husband to do that."

"I'm asking my husband to share my bed. I don't see why that's difficult to understand."

"Because I don't particularly enjoy sharing a bed with strangers, and until about ten minutes ago, you were a stranger to me."

"Then it's fortunate that we're getting married."

I stared at him.

He looked genuinely puzzled by my objection.

"Besides," he continued, "you don't have to hold me or touch me. I don't like being touched without permission, remember? You can stay on your side of the bed, and I'll stay on mine. We can both sleep. It's a rather simple arrangement."

"You're assuming I'm going to sleep."

"Do you usually stay awake all night?"

"No."

"Then I don't understand the problem."

I exhaled slowly and glanced at the solicitor, who seemed to be praying for patience.

"Mr. Armand, is every clause in this agreement like this?"

"No, Mr. Viremont. Some are considerably more straightforward."

"That's reassuring."

Vaelis looked up. "If you don't want to share a bed, we can discuss alternatives. But I need someone in the room. I have already explained that the alternatives I've tried haven't worked."

For the first time since he'd entered the drawing room, there was no teasing in his voice. He wasn't begging, nor did he look embarrassed by the admission. He stated the requirement as plainly as he'd stated his dislike of dirty floors.

I found that harder to dismiss than I'd expected.

I could still object to the arrangement. I could ask for separate beds or negotiate the terms. But the need itself wasn't something I was going to mock him for.

"Fine," I said. "We can discuss the practical details. But I'm not signing a contract that makes me responsible for being physically present every single night without any exceptions. I travel. I have work. I have a life."

"Then we'll establish exceptions."

"And if I want to sleep in another room?"

"We can discuss that too."

"You're surprisingly reasonable when you want to be."

"I'm always reasonable. People simply become upset when I don't agree with them."

My friend muttered, "That must be it."

Vaelis ignored him.

Mr. Armand gathered the papers into a neat stack, looking visibly relieved that we had moved beyond the subject without anyone throwing a chair.

"Perhaps we should review the remaining clauses one at a time," he suggested. "There is no need to settle every practical matter this afternoon. The purpose of today's meeting is to establish whether both parties are willing to proceed with the marriage and identify the terms that require further discussion."

"That sounds sensible," I said.

Vaelis nodded. "I agree."

For a brief, beautiful moment, we were in complete agreement.

Then he picked up his pen.

"However, I would like to add one more condition."

I closed my eyes.

Of course he did.

"What now?"

"No black marks on the bedding."

I opened my eyes again.

"Vaelis."

"Yes?"

"We haven't even decided whether we're sleeping in the same bed."

"Which is why I'm bringing it up now. It would be foolish to discuss the bedding after you've already ruined it."

My friends were openly laughing by then.

I leaned back in my chair and looked at the ceiling, wondering whether there was a way to acquire an inheritance without marrying the person attached to it.

Apparently, there wasn't.

And I was beginning to suspect that the money was going to cost me considerably more than I'd anticipated.

Vaelis picked up the folder again, but instead of turning to another page, he set it down with a slow, deliberate movement.

The faintly sarcastic tilt of his lips faded completely. For the first time, the detached, hyper-fixated persona cracked, revealing the raw, hollow core underneath. He looked directly at me—not at my dirty shoes, not at the floor, and not at the stack of legal documents between us.

"I don't understand why your parents are asking you to marry me," Vaelis said quietly. His voice was steady, but stripped of all the earlier playfulness. "I know who your family is, and I know who you are. But I'll be honest with you, Mael. I have... issues."

The room grew so silent that even my friends stopped fidgeting.

"The clauses you just read aren't just quirks or preferences," Vaelis continued, his sharpness giving way to something distant, as if he were discussing a completely different person. "If you fail to adhere to them—if there is too much noise, if someone touches me when I cannot bear it, if I am left alone in the dark for too long—I lose my mind."

He didn't flinch as he said it. He didn't look ashamed, but there was a chilling lack of self-preservation in the way he spoke.

"Sometimes, I need a room with chains to control me," he said, his tone flat, almost clinical. "When it happens, I don't know who I am. I don't know where I am. I don't care who is in front of me."

He paused, looking down at his pale, manicured hands resting on the table before looking back up into my eyes.

"I don't really understand why I am even telling you this," he murmured, a faint, perplexed crease forming between his brows. "You only want the inheritance. But for your safety, and for the safety of others... please make sure we have a room where I can be locked in. I need space for that."

My chest tightened. The sarcastic retort I’d been readying completely died on my tongue. The playboy arrogance I wore like armor suddenly felt useless.

I leaned forward, my brow furling as I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

Before Vaelis could answer, Mr. Armand hurriedly stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. His professional composure was cracked with unmistakable tension.

"That will be all for this afternoon, Mr. Viremont," Mr. Armand interrupted firmly, stepping slightly between Vaelis and the table. He checked his wristwatch. "Vaelis needs to take his medicine now."

Vaelis didn't argue. He didn't offer another pleasant smile, nor did he bid us goodbye. Without another word, he closed his folder, tucked it neatly under his arm, stood up, and walked out of the drawing room. His steps were light, precise, and completely devoid of emotion, leaving the heavy oak door to click shut behind him.

Silence hung in the room, thick and suffocating.

Mr. Armand smoothed the front of his jacket and turned back to face me and my friends, his expression locked into a solemn guard.

"If you have any further questions, Mr. Viremont," the solicitor said softly, "I will answer them."

I stared at the closed door for several seconds after Vaelis left, the silence in the drawing room heavy enough to choke on. My friends weren't laughing anymore. The easy, arrogant banter we’d brought in with us had completely evaporated.

I turned back to the lawyer, my hands resting heavily on the table.

"What the hell was that?" I asked, keeping my voice low, though the sharp edge in it was impossible to hide. "What is wrong with him?"

Mr. Armand didn't flinch. He slowly sat back down, neatly aligning the edges of his papers before looking up at me through his glasses. His composure was remarkably intact, but his eyes carried the weight of someone who had carried this secret for a very long time.

"Mr. Ordelune is mentally fragile, Mr. Viremont," Armand said calmly. "I assure you, he is not 'crazy' in the way society prefers to label people. His mind functions properly. He is, in fact, exceptionally sharp. He still manages the family's financial portfolios, oversees estate logistics, and handles complex analytical work far better than most businessmen I know."

"He just casually asked me to build him a padded cell with chains," I said, leaning forward. "That doesn't sound like a man who just has a few 'quirks'."

"It is trauma," Armand replied, his tone remaining even, almost clinical. "A direct result of the seven days he spent in captivity seven years ago, when he was just eighteen."

My friends shifted behind me, but no one spoke.

"The conditions he was kept in were... abhorrent," Armand continued quietly, folding his hands over the closed folder. "He was held in an unventilated, jet-black basement with no light, surrounded by filth, mud, and decay. For a whole week, an eighteen-year-old boy was completely isolated from the outside world, treated less like a human being and more like a ransom ticket."

The image flickered uncomfortably in my mind—a young, pale eighteen-year-old dragged into the dark and left in the dirt.

"When he was finally rescued, his mind had constructed rigid defense mechanisms to cope with the reality of what happened to him," Armand explained. "That is why he cannot tolerate dirt, black spots, or foul smells. To him, filth isn't just unpleasant—it is a physical trigger that pulls him right back into that basement. It induces immediate, severe panic."

"And the darkness?" I asked.

"He cannot breathe in a pitch-black room," Armand said. "Total darkness causes severe dissociation and claustrophobia. He will hyperventilate until he loses consciousness. However, dim light works. A small nightlight or a lamp in the corner is usually enough to keep his mind grounded in the present."

I took a slow breath, absorbing every word. The absurd rules in the 143-page contract suddenly didn't look like the demands of a spoiled, eccentric aristocrat anymore. The clean floors, the indoor shoes, the insistence on someone being in the room while he slept—they were all lifelines holding together a shattered psyche.

"And when he loses control?" I asked, remembering the flat, empty way Vaelis had spoken about 'losing his mind'. "The room with the chains. Was he exaggerating?"

Armand's expression darkened slightly.

"No," the solicitor admitted softly. "When his triggers overlap—if he is trapped in the dark, exposed to severe filth, or subjected to sudden physical touch without warning—his mind fractures. He suffers from violent, feral panic episodes. He completely loses touch with reality. In those moments, he is terrified beyond reason, and he will thrash, tear at himself, or attack anyone who tries to restrain him because he believes he is fighting for his life."

Armand met my eyes squarely.

"The restraints he mentioned are not for punishment, Mr. Viremont. They are a last resort to keep him from harming himself or others until the episode passes. When he is in that state, he is not Vaelis. He is simply a wounded, terrified animal trying to escape."

I sat in silence, processing the weight of what I had just been told.

"Why me?" I asked quietly. "Why agree to marry me? If he's this vulnerable, why bring a stranger into his sanctuary?"

Armand offered a small, bittersweet smile.

"Because your family offered a union that guarantees his legal protection and financial autonomy without forcing him into a psychiatric institution," Armand answered gently. "And perhaps... because when you walk into a room, Mr. Viremont, you carry a very specific kind of careless confidence. You aren't afraid of him. You don't look at him with pity, and you don't look at him like a doctor examining a patient."

Armand stood up and picked up his briefcase.

"Think about the terms, Mr. Viremont. The offer stands. If you choose to walk away, no one will blame you. But if you stay... you need to understand what kind of house you are stepping into."

With a polite bow, the solicitor walked toward the exit, leaving me sitting in the spotless drawing room, staring at the empty doorway where my future husband had stood just moments ago.

We walked out of the mansion into the cold afternoon air, the iron gates creaking shut behind us with a heavy, final thud. The engines of our bikes sat silent on the gravel, but none of us made a move to put our helmets back on right away.

The silence among us was suffocating until one of them finally cracked.

"Are you insane, Mael?"

I paused, strapping my gloves into my belt. "I hear that a lot lately. You'll have to be more specific."

"I’m dead serious," he said, stepping right into my path, his face pulled tight with genuine concern. "You cannot marry that guy. Did you hear what the lawyer said? The chains? The feral episodes? The man literally asked you to build a cage for him!"

"He's unstable, Mael," the second friend chimed in, leaning against his bike with his arms crossed, shaking his head. "I mean, he's quiet and polished on the surface, but the guy is a walking landmine. One wrong step, one black mark on his precious sheets, or a sudden power outage, and he completely loses his head."

"If it’s about the money, forget your old man," the third one cut in sharply, stepping up beside the first. "We’ve got you covered. Seriously. Whatever cash you need to keep your lifestyle going until you sort things out with your family, we’ll lend it to you. Use our money. Don't sell yourself off to marry someone like him."

I looked at the three of them. They were idiots, sure, but they were my idiots. I could see the actual panic in their eyes, the protective instinct flare-up that usually only came out when we got into street fights or pushed our bikes too fast around dead man's curves.

I let out a low, breathless laugh, pulling a cigarette from my pocket and flicking open my lighter. The tiny flame danced between us before I blew out a cloud of smoke.

"Marrying him is the best option, I guess," I said smoothly.

The three of them stared at me like I’d just spoken in tongues.

"Did you miss the whole part about him being mentally ill?" the first friend asked incredulously.

"No, I heard every word," I replied, exhaling another plume of smoke into the grey sky. "And that's precisely why it works. Think about it. He does not need my love. He doesn't need me at all. He is completely fine without me—he just needs a legal contract and someone to share a room so he can sleep."

I leaned back against my bike, looking at them through half-lidded eyes.

"And you know me very well. How am I? I’m not some saint. I’m not looking for a fairytale, a white picket fence, or a spouse who's going to track my location and demand emotional devotion."

I gestured between myself and the open road.

"I need entertainment. Drugs. Racing. Fights. That all needs money—heavy money that my father is currently holding hostage. With Vaelis, I get my inheritance, I keep my freedom, and nobody expects me to play the devoted, romantic husband."

I took another drag, my lips curling into a slow, reckless grin.

"And besides... he is beautiful. I'm really not at a loss here."

The third friend stopped dead in his tracks. The second one squinted at me as if trying to re-evaluate my sanity entirely.

"Beautiful?" the first one repeated, his voice dropping into utter disbelief. "Why the hell did you just mention that?"

"Yeah, Mael, of all the takeaways from that terrifying job interview of a meeting, that's what you came out with?" the second one scoffed, throwing his hands up. "The guy threatened you with a cleaning fee and laid out a schedule of house staff he sleeps with, and your reaction is 'at least he's pretty'?"

"I have eyes," I said innocently, tapping the ash off my cigarette. "He’s eccentric, he’s sharp, and he looks like an oil painting brought to life. If I have to be legally bound to someone to keep my trust fund, I’d rather look at a gorgeous, terrifying aristocrat than a boring one."

"He's going to bite your head off while you sleep," the third friend muttered, pulling his helmet over his head.

"Then it’ll be an entertaining way to die," I smirked, tossing the cigarette butt onto the gravel and crushing it beneath my boot. "Come on. Let's get out of here before the maid comes out to fine me for dropping ash on their pristine driveway."

I swung my leg over my bike and kicked the engine to life. The machine roared, shattering the quiet gloom of the Ordelune estate.

My friends shook their heads, defeated, but mounted their bikes anyway. As I flipped down my visor, I glanced back one last time at the high, silent windows of the mansion.

Vaelis Ordelune was chaos wrapped in neat clothes and expensive paper.

And for a guy like me who lived for trouble, he was far too intriguing to walk away from.