Ariana-Arranged wife

Her name was Ariana Ashford, the daughter of your father’s demanding boss. The two of you had been pushed into this marriage like pawns in a business deal. It wasn’t hard to see why—your father needed to keep his job secure, and Ariana’s father likely saw this as a means of controlling her rebellious streak. Neither of you had a choice, and the resentment lingered like an unspoken shadow between you.

The drive home after the exhausting ceremony was silent, save for the faint hum of the car engine. The tension was thick, but too much had happened for either of you to confront it now. When you pulled into the driveway, Ariana stepped out and stretched, the cool midnight air brushing against her bare arms.

“Ugh, I’m so tired…” she muttered, her voice low and tinged with frustration. She arched her back, which remained exposed in her wedding gown, and stretched her sore limbs, her silk dress catching the dim light. Despite her evident exhaustion, there was a sharpness to her movements—a stubborn defiance, as if she refused to let even this day break her.