The lingerie set was laid out neatly on her bed—black, lacy, and bold. A matching silk robe, barely knee-length, sat beside it, along with a bonnet and… was that a garter?
Selene stared at the items like they were weapons.
*What in the name of psychological warfare is this?*
A knock came at the door, and a woman stepped in—older, reserved, and bowed slightly, her tone respectful.
"Mrs. Vander," she said.
Selene blinked. *Mrs. Vander?* That title still sounded like a joke someone forgot to laugh at.
"Uh… lol," she muttered, awkwardly. "Think you've got the wrong—"
"The master said you are to wear this to dinner," the woman interrupted, gesturing toward the scandalous ensemble. "No flashy colors. Dinner is by 8 p.m., ma'am."
Selene squinted. "This? For dinner?"
The woman bowed again. "He dislikes disorder and lateness," she added before turning and walking out without another word.
Silence filled the room as Selene slowly sat on the edge of the bed, lifting the lingerie with two fingers like it might bite her.
"What is this man trying to do?" she muttered. "Is this a test? Humiliation? Or… some twisted way of seeing if I'll flinch?"
She glanced at the clock—7:03 p.m.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric.
"He wants cold? I'll be ice."
She got up, pulled off her clothes, and walked toward the bathroom, determined in every step.
*Let the dinner games begin.*
---
Selene was still slightly damp from her quick shower, her skin dewy beneath the silky black lace that clung to her body like a whisper. The robe barely did anything to cover her thighs, and she swore the bonnet made her look like she was walking the line between *mistress* and *midnight snack*. With bare feet padding softly against the cold marble, she descended the stairs from the second floor.
*Dinner in lingerie. What is this, a contract marriage or a reality show?*
She entered the dining hall, and there he was—already seated at the long, sleek table like he owned time itself. Which, given his arrogance, he probably believed.
Her eyes narrowed.
*A black t-shirt? Seriously?*
It fit snug against his chest, and she couldn't help but notice the slight sheen on his skin beneath. *Did this man… oil his chest?* she squinted.
"If men were that easy to create," she muttered under her breath, "I'd start a factory."
Zenon didn't so much as glance up. He was sipping red wine like this was any other Tuesday and not the night he asked his supposed wife to show up dressed like sin.
Selene pulled out a chair on her own and sat down with a huff. She wasn't expecting gentlemanly gestures—not from a man who used insults as punctuation.
Still, her nerves prickled. She felt the air on her skin, and the delicate lace suddenly felt too revealing. She crossed her legs and held her head high.
He hadn't spoken. Not a comment, not a smirk, not even one of his signature cutting remarks.
*Oh, so now he's mute?*
Fine. If he wanted a silent dinner, she'd give him one. But this wasn't over.
Not even close.
—
The dinner table was anything but romantic.
No plates.
No silverware.
Just a single glass of red wine… and a stack of papers.
Selene blinked.
*Wow. Nothing says "marriage" like legal documents and alcohol.*
Zenon didn't look up as the lawyer adjusted his tie awkwardly, trying not to gawk at Selene's barely-there outfit or at the stifling silence hanging over the room.
"Ahem," the lawyer began, clearing his throat. "This is a standard marital contract... well, standard in the sense that it's custom-tailored to Mr. Vander's very, uh, specific needs."
Selene arched a brow.
Zenon slowly lifted his head, gaze as sharp as ever. "Get on with it."
"Y-yes, sir." The man fumbled with the papers. "Clause one: No public displays of affection unless explicitly required by business optics."
Selene snorted. "Business optics. Wow, what a romantic."
The lawyer chuckled nervously but shut up quickly when Zenon shot him a look.
"Clause two," he continued, sweating now, "no entering the master bedroom unless summoned or permitted."
Selene side-eyed Zenon. *So now I'm a guest in my own fake marriage? Noted.*
"Clause three…" the lawyer hesitated, eyeing the next line like it might burn his hands. "No colorful clothing within shared spaces. Monochrome preferred."
"Oh, for God's—" Selene started, but Zenon spoke over her, calm and clear:
"I hate distractions."
The lawyer nodded too quickly. "Right. Yes. Visual minimalism. Very chic."
Zenon signed first, his signature sharp and fast like a cut through glass. He dropped the pen with finality.
"Don't keep me waiting," he said without looking up.
Selene hesitated only a second before she signed too, the pen feeling heavier than it should.
"A cold contract," she murmured.
Zenon's eyes flicked to her. "Follow the rules strictly. Any disobedience calls for penalties… steep ones."
The lawyer tried to smile, clearly desperate to leave, but instead, Selene stood up, adjusting the short hem of her lingerie.
"Are you seriously going to let your *wife* sit alone at the dinner table?" she asked, her voice deceptively sweet.
Zenon slowly turned to her, a smirk curling his lips—something dangerous, something that didn't match the ice he usually carried.
"Elene,It's *Mrs. Vander*, not *my wife*," he corrected.
Selene matched his gaze. "And it's *Selene*, not *Elene*. Get it right."
He stepped toward her, every movement deliberate. Slow. Measured.
"Elene," he repeated slowly, deliberately — as if trimming a syllable off her name was the same as trimming her worth— tilting his head. "Short. Simple. Dull. Quiet."
He stopped just inches away. His hand lifted, and two fingers gently tilted her chin up to meet his eyes.
"You don't try to act fierce at my dinner table," he said, voice low—almost a whisper, but dark as a storm. "This is my place of peace. And if you insist on disturbing it…"
He leaned closer, his fingers brushing her chin.
*"I'll burn you hotter than hell."*
Selene's heart pounded, but she didn't flinch.
She met his eyes—sharp, amber, unreadable.
*This man could ruin her. Break her.*
But he was also her only way forward.
*She swallowed hard.*
*This isn't about pride. It's about time. About the child I may never have if I walk away now.*
*So burn me, Mr. Vander,* she thought.
*Just let me survive long enough to become a mother.*
---