The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of the penthouse bedroom, illuminating the space with a golden hue. Hana lay still in the bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, her heart pounding in the quiet aftermath of what had happened the night before. Her wedding night though hardly romantic had marked a turning point in her life. One signature, one night, and everything had changed.
She sat up slowly, wincing at the dull ache in her chest not from pain, but from the emotional weight of the choices she'd made. She was now Mrs. Ethan Lancaster, wife to one of the most powerful men in the city, and yet, nothing about this arrangement felt like a real marriage.
Downstairs, Ethan Lancaster was already dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, sipping black coffee at the long marble island in the kitchen. His eyes were on the financial report in front of him, cold and detached as ever. He didn't look up when Hana entered, dressed in one of the modest designer dresses that had been left for her in the closet.
"Good morning," she said, her voice soft.
His eyes flicked up to her for a split second before returning to the paper. "We leave at nine. Be ready."
That was it. No acknowledgment of what they had agreed to. No smile. No warmth. Just instructions as if she were one of his employees.
"You mean to go see my mother?" she asked, walking over to stand on the other side of the island.
He finally looked at her, his gaze sharp and unreadable. "Yes. The Lancaster Foundation has already transferred the first installment to the hospital. Your mother's treatment starts today."
Relief flooded her face, followed by confusion. "Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me. We have a deal," he said coolly.
Hana bit her lip and nodded. The air between them was thick with unspoken tension. She watched him as he finished his coffee, marveling at how someone so outwardly perfect could feel so emotionally distant.
The drive to the hospital was silent. Ethan's driver, a middle-aged man named Harris, didn't speak unless spoken to. Hana sat with her hands in her lap, sneaking glances at the man beside her.
Ethan Lancaster was every bit the cold-hearted CEO the tabloids described. His jaw was set, his lips pressed in a firm line. But Hana couldn't help but wonder was that mask always there, or had it been formed by years of pain?
When they arrived at the hospital, Hana rushed to her mother's side, holding her hand as tears welled in her eyes. Her mother, Mrs. Sorae, was already prepped for treatment, her frail body hooked to machines, but she smiled upon seeing her daughter.
"You came, Hana... You look beautiful," her mother whispered.
Hana held her hand tightly. "Everything's going to be okay now, Mom. We're going to fight this together."
Ethan stood at the doorway, watching silently. Something flickered in his eyes just for a second as he watched the emotional reunion. It reminded him of a time long ago, of a woman who had once held his hand the same way.
Back at the Lancaster estate, things remained cold. The staff had been informed of Hana's presence but treated her with the polite distance reserved for temporary guests.
That evening, Hana wandered into the library, hoping to find something to distract her. Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls, and in the corner, Ethan sat behind a large desk, typing furiously on his laptop.
She paused, unsure if she should leave.
"Do you need something?" he asked without looking up.
"I was just... exploring," she said.
"Then explore somewhere else. I'm working."
Hurt, Hana nodded and turned to leave. But before she could reach the door, he spoke again.
"You don't need to tiptoe around here. Just don't expect me to play the husband."
She froze, her heart sinking. "I never asked you to."
"Good," he said, his tone clipped.
She left, tears stinging her eyes.
Days passed. Their routine was mechanical. Ethan would leave early and return late. Meals were eaten separately. The only time they saw each other was during scheduled events or visits to the hospital.
But despite the distance, Hana began to observe things. The way Ethan ran his fingers through his hair when stressed. The way he always donated anonymously. The way he stood silently by her mother's door every time, never entering, just... watching.
And Ethan, despite himself, found his eyes drawn to Hana more than he liked to admit. She was different calm, resilient, kind. Nothing like the gold-diggers he'd fended off for years.
One evening, as he returned home, he found her asleep on the living room couch, a book resting on her chest. Her face looked peaceful, soft.
He walked over, intending to wake her, but paused. Instead, he reached for the blanket on the side and gently draped it over her.
As he turned to leave, she stirred, murmuring, "Ethan...?"
He froze.
"You're not as cold as you pretend to be," she whispered, eyes still closed.
He didn't reply. Just stared at her sleeping form for a moment longer.
Then, with a deep sigh, he walked away his cold eyes hiding the first cracks in the armor.