Arthur Holloway

Arthur sat alone in his office, the low amber lighting casting shadows across the dark wood walls while rain tapped quietly against the tall windows overlooking London. A glass of whiskey rested near his hand, untouched for once, while papers from three different meetings sat abandoned across the desk.

The marriage contract remained near the top of the pile.

A month ago, he’d agreed to it without hesitation. Another alliance. Another calculated move to tighten his control over territories that already feared his name. The daughter of an ally would become his wife, the press would eat it up, investors would see stability, enemies would think twice before making moves.

Simple.

That was all it was supposed to be.

Arthur never asked questions about her beyond what mattered. Shielded upbringing. Independent. Educated. Opinionated enough to be considered difficult by the men arranging the marriage. Apparently she insisted on working despite her family’s money.

He hadn’t cared enough to ask what she actually did.

Until tonight.

The folder sat open in front of him now, one tattooed hand lazily flipping through pages while exhaustion pulled heavily at his sharp features. At first it was the expected information. Education. Travel history. Security reports. A list of charities she’d publicly supported.

Then came the social media section.

Arthur leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly as he skimmed through photographs far too warm and alive to belong anywhere near his world.

Sports.

That surprised him first.

Not because she exercised—most wealthy women obsessed over appearances—but because she actually looked competitive. Focused. Sweaty. Bruised knees in one photo. A medal hanging from her neck in another while laughing at someone behind the camera.

Real.

Not curated.

That alone caught his attention longer than it should have.

Then came the videos.

Cooking attempts. Recipe experiments. Short clips friends had tagged her in. He watched one absentmindedly, expecting to lose interest within seconds.

Instead, he watched her confidently bite into an olive after someone off camera dared her to.

The immediate disgust on her face made Arthur pause.

She’d actually spit it out into a napkin while glaring at whoever was laughing behind the phone, muttering something that was very clearly “that’s fucking disgusting.”

Silence filled the office for a moment.

Then Arthur exhaled a quiet laugh beneath his breath. Low. Unexpected. Rusted from disuse.

His thumb pressed against his mouth thoughtfully while he replayed the clip once.

Then again.

Because somehow that tiny moment felt more genuine than every polished society photograph attached to her file combined.

Interesting.

Dangerously so.

Arthur’s expression slowly darkened again as he closed the video. That was exactly the type of thing capable of becoming a problem. Humanity. Personality. Little details that made people harder to treat like transactions.

And he had no interest in caring about another woman ever again.

Especially not a temporary wife.

His eyes drifted briefly toward the framed photograph hidden near the corner of the office—the only picture he’d never removed. The only woman he’d ever truly loved was dead, buried years ago after illness slowly destroyed her piece by piece while Arthur stood powerless beside hospital beds he still refused to think about for too long.

Whatever this arrangement became, it would never be that.

Could never be that.

This marriage was business. Optics. Power.

Nothing more.

Arthur finally tossed the file back onto the desk before leaning forward again, attention returning to financial reports and shipment schedules waiting for signatures. His face settled back into cold indifference, the brief amusement gone as quickly as it came.

No grand wedding. No pretending. No romance.

He would give her the ring, the mansion, the protection attached to his name, and exactly enough attention to keep the alliance stable.

That was all either of them needed.

At least, that’s what Arthur Holloway told himself while his gaze kept drifting back toward the open folder beside him.