My marriage was perfect—at least, that's what I told myself in the beginning.
I married Rogan Marsden, the first son of billionaire Alvan Marsden. To the outside world, it looked like a fairy tale: a girl from a modest background marrying into one of the most powerful families in the country. But behind the glitz and glamor, there was a story no one knew. A story built on desperation, silence, and a love that lived in only one heart—mine.
I didn't marry Rogan for his wealth.
I married him because I loved him.
From the moment I was old enough to understand what love felt like, Rogan had been my silent obsession. He was the man who made my heart race whenever he walked into my father's office. The man who barely knew I existed—until everything fell apart.
My father wasn't poor, but he wasn't rich either. He was brilliant, a man with ideas that could change entire industries. For years, he worked with powerful clients, including Marsden Enterprises. I grew up watching him negotiate, pitch, and build dreams with men in designer suits. And among them was Rogan Marsden—handsome, composed, and always out of reach.
It all started when my father proposed a high-stakes investment plan to Alvan Marsden. It was bold and risky, but if it succeeded, it would have made both families wealthier than ever. But it didn't. It failed spectacularly.
The fallout was immediate. The Marsdens suffered a huge loss, and Alvan didn't take it lightly.
"You owe me fifty percent of the damages," he said coldly, standing in our living room as if he owned it.
My father was stunned. "Alvan, we've worked together for over a decade. This is the first deal that failed. You can't put this all on me."
"Trust doesn't pay for losses," Alvan snapped.
The threats came next—lawsuits, ruined reputation, financial ruin. Everything my father had built was at risk of crumbling.
And then, out of nowhere, Rogan stepped forward.
"What if I marry your daughter in exchange for the debt?" he said calmly.
The room fell into silence. Even Alvan looked shocked. "Rogan, this is not how we handle business."
But Rogan's eyes were on me. Not cold, not kind—just unreadable.
"I want her," he said.
My father was furious. "She's not a payment. She's my daughter!"
Before anyone could say another word, I spoke.
"I'll do it," I said, my voice shaking. "I'll marry him."
I truly believed it was fate. That maybe—just maybe—Rogan had feelings for me too. That the debt was just his excuse to finally be with me. I thought God was finally answering my prayers. But I was wrong.
The first red flag came when we started planning the wedding. I told Rogan I didn't want anything extravagant. "Just something simple," I said, hoping for a quiet, intimate day.
But he looked at me with blank disapproval.
"You don't get to choose," he said flatly. "I'll decide what the wedding looks like. Your only job is to show up."
His voice was cold, almost bored. And he wasn't done.
"As for the dress, I'll choose it. I don't want you looking like something that doesn't belong next to me."
His words should have cut me. Should have made me stop and question everything. But instead, I smiled through the sting. I told myself this was just how powerful men acted—assertive, controlling, protective.
Back then, I still thought it was love in disguise.
I wanted to believe he was just under pressure. That once the wedding was over, the man I loved would finally show himself.
I was naive. I was desperate. I ignored all the signs.
And on the day of the wedding, those signs became impossible to ignore.
The ceremony was grand—too grand. A palace-sized hall, golden chandeliers, and hundreds of guests I didn't know. Cameras flashed. Reporters whispered. Everyone smiled. Except me.
Rogan stood at the altar like a sculpture—flawless, unreadable, untouchable. His tuxedo was perfect. His eyes were cold.
When the priest said, "You may now kiss the bride," his lips brushed mine with all the warmth of a business handshake. Brief. Calculated. Distant.
At the reception, he barely stayed by my side. He drank. He talked business. He laughed with strangers.
And I sat alone, his wife in name only.
The reception ended Rogan and I were finally alone. The soft golden light in the private room cast a glow over the elegant bedding, the air heavy with rose petals and expectations. I had dreamed about this night, just like every girl does. I thought it would be perfect, magical, like in the stories where the man she loves makes her feel cherished.
But the mood was off from the start. He tried, he tried to be romantic. His kisses were slow, his voice smooth with practiced words I wasn't sure he even meant. He whispered things into my ear, brushing my skin like it was a ritual he'd done a thousand times before.
Then, his hands wandered.
That's when fear crept in.
Even before he touched me there, something didn't feel right. My body tensed up. My heart raced not from excitement, but from something close to panic. And when his fingers moved lower, I found myself blurting out the truth.
"I haven't... I haven't done this before," I whispered, barely able to meet his eyes. "I'm still a virgin."
There was silence. A thick, ugly silence.
Rogan froze. He sat back, looking at me like I'd confessed a crime. His face twisted into something between disbelief and disgust.
"You're still a virgin?" he echoed, standing up suddenly like the bed had caught fire. "Oh my God... you're lying on my bed, and you're still a virgin?"
His voice rose, sharp and cold.
"What do you think this is? Some fairy tale? Do you think being a virgin makes you special? Different?" He laughed dryly, shaking his head. "Please, I don't want to think about this. "Just get out."
I sat there, frozen, my heart shattering with each word.
"This virgin crap? It means nothing to me," he spat. "You think that'll make me treat you better? Respect you more? You've got the wrong man."
He turned his back to me, as if even looking at me made him sick.
Rogan poured himself a drink, loosened his tie, and said calmly, "You can sleep on the bed. I'll take the couch."
Confused, I whispered, "Why?"
He turned, his eyes glinting with something I couldn't name.
"You're still a virgin, right?"
"Then go find someone else to take care of that. I don't have time for… sentimental nonsense."
I couldn't speak.
"If you want, I can get a doctor to handle it. I don't care either way."
I stood there, bare and broken, realizing the truth: I had married a man who didn't love me. Who never wanted me.
To him, I wasn't a bride.
I was a bargain.