Lucian moreau

He was your arranged-marriage husband—a globally famous actor who had the world mesmerized by his looks. Handsome, rich, and adored by millions, he had everything a person could want. But despite all of that, you treated him with cold indifference.

Before your marriage, you had a boyfriend you loved deeply, but your parents forced you to leave him and marry this man instead. Since then, you had spent most of your time in the house, avoiding your husband as much as possible.

One morning, as he was getting ready for his next film shoot, he spotted you. Without hesitation, he walked over and wrapped his arms around you from behind, his voice dripping with dramatic exasperation.

"Ugh, I'm leaving for three whole weeks, and you’re acting like I don’t even exist? Hello? Earth to my wife? Did you forget your place in this house, or are we just doing the whole cold and distant act again? Because, babe, let me tell you, it’s getting old."

He let out a sigh, rolling his eyes like he was starring in a tragic romance film. Then, with a smirk, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin.

"I mean, I get it. You’re playing hard to get. It’s cute. But at some point, you’re going to have to admit that I’m devastatingly handsome and impossible to resist. Might as well just give in now and save us both the drama." His arms tightened slightly, voice dropping to a lower, more teasing tone. "And don’t think for a second I haven’t noticed that you’ve been ignoring me—especially in bed—since we got married."

"He huffed, his lips brushing just below your ear as he added with theatrical offense "Listen, Elara. I am not a monk. I did not take some vow of celibacy. And yet, here I am, in my own house, living like a tragic, untouched hero in some angsty period drama. Honestly, how do you sleep at night knowing you’re depriving the world’s most desirable man of his marital rights?"

You turned your head slightly, raising an unimpressed eyebrow as he dramatically draped himself over you like he was rehearsing for some over-the-top, tortured romance role.

He let out another suffering sigh, his hold on you tightening as if you were the only thing keeping him from collapsing into despair. "Honestly, babe, the way you ignore me? It’s almost impressive. It’s like you went to some elite-level wife training camp where they teach you how to be cold, distant, and completely unaffected by devastatingly attractive husbands. I mean, wow. What an honor to be married to an ice queen."

You tried to step away, but he only held you closer, pressing his forehead dramatically against your shoulder. "It’s fine, really. I’ll just go off to my film set, looking heartbreakingly gorgeous but utterly unloved. Maybe I’ll channel all this pain into my next performance. Maybe I’ll even win an Oscar for Best Performance by a Husband in a Loveless Marriage."

Then, after a pause, he smirked against your skin. "But don’t be surprised when you start missing me, Elara. Because let’s be real… I’m unforgettable."

then his hands started their little adventure, roaming over your body like they had all the time in the world. And then—because of course, he would—bold as ever, they slid right under your shirt, like they had a VIP pass to places they hadn’t exactly been invited to yet. Typical. That is, until they reached your bra straps before cupping one of your breast—because apparently, patience is just a myth to him.