Chapter 3

“I just wanted to—” Arabella’s voice trembled, barely audible. She was still in shock at Harry’s temper.  

“Stop! I don’t need your explanation,” Harry cut her off with a low growl.  

Arabella clenched her hands tightly, trying to suppress the ache in her chest. She knew this marriage had never been about love, but she never expected Harry’s hatred toward her to run so deep.  

Without another word, she crouched down and began picking up the shattered pieces of the cup with trembling hands. She bit her lip, holding back the sob threatening to escape. She wanted to leave, to give up, but for some reason, her heart refused to. Going back to her father’s house was not an option either. She felt like an object, discarded so easily.  

From his wheelchair, Harry merely watched her in silence. Something inside him felt strange seeing her act so gently after what had happened last night.  

Arabella took a deep breath, trying to quell the storm brewing within her. Her hands still trembled as she stared at the mess on the floor. If it had been anyone else, she would have lashed out. Arabella was not a patient girl.  

“Why did you do this, Harry? You could’ve just said no. Was it so hard?” she muttered, her voice shaking—not out of fear, but from sheer disappointment.  

Harry’s sharp gaze met hers from his wheelchair. “I already told you, Arabella. I don’t need your concern! I don’t need your pity! This marriage is just a status, nothing more. Don’t act like you’re my real wife.”  

His words pierced her like a thousand needles. Arabella clenched her fists, resisting the urge to hurl biting words back at him. She understood that Harry’s anger wasn’t solely directed at her. He was angry at the world, at his fate. Unfortunately, she was the easiest target.  

Taking a steadying breath, Arabella said softly, “I just want to take care of you. No matter what, I am your wife, even if it’s only in name.”  

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “A wife? Don’t be ridiculous! You’re just playing a role you never wanted. I don’t need that. I don’t need you making breakfast for me.”  

Arabella closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to control her emotions. “If you didn’t want me to make you breakfast, you could’ve just told me, Harry. You didn’t have to humiliate my effort like this. And you didn’t have to waste food. There are people out there starving.”  

For a brief moment, Harry was silent. Arabella had the audacity to argue with him. But his pride was too great to admit he was wrong. He jerked his wheelchair around roughly, turning his back to her. “Don’t waste your time on me, Arabella. You should know by now that we only married because of circumstances. I will never see you as my wife.”  

Arabella swallowed, tasting the bitterness of reality. She had known from the beginning that this marriage wasn’t built on love. But she hadn’t expected Harry to reject her so completely, even in the smallest things like breakfast.  

“You stubborn, short-tempered man,” she muttered under her breath with a huff.  

She crouched down again, carefully cleaning up the mess. She would not cry in front of Harry. She would not show him how much his words had hurt her.  

At the very least, he was honest—not a coward like Mike, who had the guts to cheat behind her back while pretending to be the sweetest man alive. In the end, he had betrayed her.  

“Fine, Harry,” she finally said, her voice steady despite the pain in her chest. “If that’s what you want, I won’t make you breakfast anymore.”  

Harry didn’t reply. He remained turned away from her, staring out the window with an unreadable expression.  

Ignoring everything else, he wheeled himself to his study, skipping breakfast entirely.  

Arabella, meanwhile, was left feeling both hurt and frustrated. But she had made up her mind—she wouldn’t give up.  

That evening, Harry called for her in the living room. Arabella walked cautiously, still haunted by the morning’s events. When she arrived, Harry was already seated, his expression serious as he pushed a folder toward her.  

Arabella swallowed hard. She could already guess what was inside. Why did her love life feel like a drama? She cursed inwardly.  

“Sit down,” Harry said coldly. She obeyed, settling onto the sofa across from him.  

Harry opened the folder and pulled out a stack of papers. “This is our marriage contract. I want you to read through every clause before you sign it.”  

Arabella’s eyes scanned the pages, her fingers trembling slightly.  

“As part of this agreement,” Harry continued, “I will provide a sum of money to your father as a dowry. Our marriage will last only one year, after which we will separate with no claims from either party.”  

Arabella bit her lip, her hands shaking as she held the document.  

“You will also receive financial support for the duration of the year,” Harry added impassively. “However, there are conditions. You are not to interfere in my personal affairs, you are not to try and gain my sympathy, and most importantly, do not expect this marriage to become anything more than a contract.”  

Arabella felt her chest tighten. This wasn’t the marriage she had dreamed of, but she had no choice. With trembling hands, she picked up the pen and looked at Harry.  

“I understand,” she whispered, before signing the contract.  

Her emotions swirled in turmoil. Should she be relieved or heartbroken by this arrangement? One thing was certain—right now, she felt utterly worthless.