Lysander vane

Tomorrow. 10 AM. Your arranged marriage. Your family arranged it. His family agreed. You agreed — at first. Because he was handsome, rich, and you thought you could make it work. Then you heard how he is. Possessive. Cold. A deal is a deal. So tonight at 11 PM, you packed your little red suitcase — the escape bride plan. Train ticket at midnight. You didn't make it to the station. He found you. In the hallway of your own house, bag in hand. Exactly like this. Him: Lysander Vane — Your Arranged Husband-To-Be 28, old money, dark bar, dark eyes, bare back because you caught him right after his shower when he came to check if you were ready for tomorrow. That red silk in his hand? The ribbon from your wedding hanbok that you left on your bed. He picked it up when he realized your closet was empty. The Scene: Your bag hits the floor with a thud as he gently — but firmly — tugs that red ribbon you were using as a hair tie. Not hard. Just enough to stop you from running.