The first lesson Luna Harris took away from her wedding night arrived sharp and without mercy: in her family, poverty was treated like a scandal. Marrying a poor man, it seemed, was close to treason. The Harris living room smelled of bergamot tea and a particular, worn-out disdain—the kind that settles on your shoulders and makes you want to shrink into the wallpaper. She lingered in the doorway, fingers worrying the frayed strap of her handbag until the leather protested, and listened to an exchange that had more teeth than civility.
"So this is the husband?" Aunt Rose purred, each syllable glazed as something dipped in sugar. "He looks… ordinary." Generous, that word. Ethan Cole sat beside Luna on the sofa in a plain white shirt and black trousers that had seen better weeks. He slouched in a manner that could have read as indifference or boredom—no one there bothered to ask which. He didn't flinch. He didn't argue. The silence in the room only sharpened their cruelty.
"Luna, you've disappointed your late parents," Uncle Harris said, as if her choice were an affront to his taste buds. "You could have married a man with status, with money, with—" he paused for effect—"everything. Instead, you married… this." Luna had run answers through her head in the small hours; none of them landed now. None dulled the sting. She forced a polite smile. "Uncle, he's my husband."
Aunt Rose cocked her head, lips pinched like someone studying a specimen. "And what does your husband do?" The pause after the question tightened like a clamp. Ethan looked up slowly, as if time were something he could afford to ignore. "I'm currently unemployed," he said, quiet and factual.
The room exploded. Laughter—sharp, practiced—bloomed around them. Vanessa Harris, in silk and a perpetual smirk, pretended to choke on a laugh. "Oh my God. Luna, you married a useless man?" The words cut. Luna's nails left crescents in her palms. Ethan tilted his teacup as if the moment were a bad sketch and murmured, dryly, "That tea is bitter." Vanessa's comeback came with the practiced venom of someone who lived to belittle. "My fiancé just became a department director at a multinational. Meanwhile, your husband can't even afford tea!"
Shame and anger coiled in Luna's chest. She wanted to sink through the parquet. Instead, she straightened. "I didn't marry him for money," she said, steadier than she felt.
"Of course you didn't," Aunt Rose returned, sugared and sharp. "No sane man with money would marry you, Luna." The sentence landed like a slap. Uncle Harris, smelling triumph, slid into condescending helpfulness. "Luna, you know your father's company shares are still in probate. If you need financial guidance—or support—the family can help. Naturally, you'll need to sign them over to someone more capable."
There it was: the real reason for the gathering. Harris Tech Solutions. Twenty percent legally hers, yet apparently bound for hands that assumed a woman couldn't run a balance sheet. Luna felt a familiar rush—first betrayal, then resolve. "I'm not signing anything," she said.
Aunt Rose's smile sharpened. "Don't be stubborn, dear. You're a kindergarten teacher. You can't run a company. And your husband… can't even support himself." Her throat tightened as she met Ethan's eyes. Something passed there—small, almost invisible—a twitch like a fuse being lit. He set his teacup down; the clink cut through the room.
He rose slowly, smoothing his sleeve. "Luna," he said, gently, "we should go." Vanessa snorted. "Running away already? Typical." Ethan paused with his hand on the door, turned just enough for them to see him. Pleasant. Polite. Harmless. Terrifying.
"Uncle Harris," he said, voice flat, steady, "that company you're so worried about—what's its name again?"
Harris blinked. "Harris Tech Solutions. Why?"
Ethan's smile was small and private. "No reason. I'll remember it." Even in the heat of that perfumed room, Luna felt a cold that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. She had always seen Ethan as patient, the kind who took things quietly. This was different.
Outside, Bangkok pressed in: neon smeared over wet pavement, scooters chirping like an indifferent chorus, the city oblivious to family cruelties. Luna's hands trembled; adrenaline pricked her skin. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have brought you here."
"You have nothing to apologize for," Ethan replied. There was no consolation in his tone—only a flat clarity that made her stomach flip. She let out a brittle laugh. "They were awful to you."
"They were awful to you," he corrected. Plain fact. No heat. Luna opened her mouth to defend them—both of them—but emitted a sharper laugh instead, edged with defiance. "You're too nice, Ethan. You shouldn't have married me."
He answered softly and exactly. "I married exactly who I wanted to marry."
Her phone buzzed. Marcus Tan. The name hit like cold water. I heard you got married. Congratulations. Let's meet tomorrow. I have a business proposal for you. Once your husband won't be able to refuse. The message made the nape of her neck prickle. Marcus's "proposals" were never generous.
Ethan leaned forward, glanced at the screen with the same unruffled composure that had worn at her all evening. No surprise crossed his face. No visible reaction. Then his voice sharpened—thin, precise. "Who's Marcus Tan?"
Luna gripped the phone until her knuckles blanched. She searched for the man she thought she knew—the unemployed, placid husband who took humiliation with a shrug. In his eyes now was a quiet like the sea holding breath before a storm: deliberate, contained. Her heart pounded. A small, cold certainty slid through her: tonight—tea and taunts and public humiliation—was only the opening move. Under his calm, there was something larger. Potent. Dangerous.
Cliffhanger: Another buzz. Marcus again, more urgent. The message read like a summons—direct, personal, with no room for delay. Luna read it twice, the words knotting her stomach. Tomorrow would force choices. It could strip away everything she loved—the man she had vowed to stand beside, her late father's shares, the life she thought was hers—and l
eave her with nothing.