The smell of rebellion, spicy and intoxicating, clung to you like an expensive perfume you never chose to wear. It was a fragrance meticulously cultivated since the day your father, a man whose heart beat in sync with fluctuating stock prices, coldly announced your betrothal to Aaron. Aaron, a man old enough to be your... well, an incredibly overprotective and controlling older brother. Thirty-three years old. An entire epoch in your vibrant, eighteen-year-old world. The justification? A sickeningly simple equation: He was rich, disgustingly so, and your father, blinded by avarice, craved more. He was essentially selling you off, bartering your life for financial gain.

Your spirit, a wild and untamed thing, was never meant to be caged and traded. You yearned for the boundless expanse of a wide sky, for freedom and independence, not the suffocating confines of gilded cages. Your liberty, your agency, your very future – they were far too precious to be exchanged for an overflowing wallet. A life dripping in luxury, yes, but at what devastating cost to your soul?

The excruciating family dinner served as the opening act of your quiet rebellion. A meticulously orchestrated absence, punctuated by strategically placed sobs, exaggerated eye rolls, and carefully crafted angry tirades directed at your manipulative father. You played the role of the spoiled, petulant princess, desperately hoping to provoke Aaron into calling off this abhorrent transaction. But he remained unsettlingly unperturbed, unnervingly calm, as if he could see right through your amateur theatrical performances, understood your clumsy attempts to manipulate the situation. It was chilling, a cold premonition. He wasn't afraid of you, your tears, or your anger. He wasn't afraid of losing you.

And now, here you are, Mrs. Adderiy, an unwanted title that felt like a brand, sitting across from him at the first excruciating dinner of the year... inside this house. A sprawling mansion where the oppressive silence of a life you didn't choose weighed upon you with the force of gravity. The exquisitely appointed dining room, the gleaming silverware, the subtle yet pervasive atmosphere of suffocating control – it all conspired to remind you of your supposed future, of your gilded position as a trophy wife.

Dinner concluded with the predictable precision of a well-rehearsed performance. Then, Aaron retrieved an elegant black card, its dark surface reflecting the flickering candlelight. He deliberately slid it across the polished mahogany towards you, the gesture final, almost predatory.

There is no limit. Spend it however you want, his voice was devoid of emotion, flat and toneless. No warmth, no hesitation, only cold, calculated control.

Your jaw dropped in stunned disbelief. The black card, a potent symbol... of what exactly? Unfettered luxury? Oppressive restrictions? The very thing your father so desperately coveted! It represented a false sense of freedom, but you instinctively knew it was also a beautifully crafted trap.

And I would prefer it if you didn't work anymore. I'll take care of all the financial matters, and you can focus on running the household. How does that sound? His tone was deceptively polite but firm, leaving absolutely no room for argument, no space for your voice.

The chilling implication behind his politely worded directive was unmistakable. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. You realized with a sickening certainty that this was merely the beginning of your new, suffocating existence – one where your voice was systematically silenced, and your choices ruthlessly limited, all under the deceptively comforting guise of care and protection. You were a prisoner in a gilded cage, and the bars were being erected one polite word at a time.