I found myself thrust into an arranged marriage, a desperate attempt to salvage my family’s struggling business. On what should have been a joyous wedding night, I anticipated the usual awkward small talk. Instead, Adriana, my new wife, issued a startling command: “From now on, you must do everything I tell you.” I was taken aback. Was this some kind of joke? No, it was a blatant power play, and refusing her would mean risking everything my family had worked for.
“Son, I wouldn’t ask this of you if there were any other options,” my father said, his voice lacking its usual authority.
I couldn’t hide my disbelief. “You really think marrying a woman I’ve never met is the only way to save the business?”
He sighed heavily. “Adriana is Victor’s daughter. The merger with his company is our last hope. He’s traditional and wants to unite our families.”
“So, I’m just a pawn in this game?” The bitterness in my voice was unmistakable.
“James, please try to understand—”
“I understand perfectly, Dad.”
“You built this company, made all the decisions that led us here, and now I have to clean up your mess by selling myself like some medieval prince.”
His expression fell. “Just meet Adriana before you make a decision.”
Despite my desire to refuse, the desperation in his eyes compelled me to relent. “Fine, I’ll meet her. But I’m not making any promises.”
When we met a few days later at a restaurant, I was struck by Adriana’s beauty. She had a voice that was soothing and eyes that seemed to evaluate everything around her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet,” she said, taking her seat. “This situation is unconventional, but I believe we can make it work.” She smiled and twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “What would you like to know about me, James?”
The conversation flowed easily. Adriana was intelligent, witty, and surprisingly engaging. By the end of our meeting, I found myself reconsidering my initial resistance. “She’s incredible,” I told my father the next day.
His relief was palpable. “So, you’ll go through with it?”
I hesitated, sensing something was still off, but the hope in my father’s eyes swayed me. “Yes, I’ll marry Adriana.”
Our wedding felt more like a corporate merger than a celebration. Corporate partners filled the pews, and the vows felt like contractual obligations. Even the kiss was brief and formal, as if it were merely a formality.
Later, in the presidential suite of a luxurious hotel, Adriana kicked off her heels and perched on the edge of the bed. I adjusted my tie, unsure of what to expect next.
Then she locked eyes with me and said, “From now on, you must do everything I tell you.”
I laughed, thinking she was joking. “And what’s your first command, Your Highness?”
Her expression remained serious. “I’m hungry. Go get me a burger from McDonald’s on Grant Street. Walk there.”
“Adriana, it’s almost midnight. That’s nearly two miles away.”
“I know,” she replied, her smile icy. “Better get going.”
I was stunned. In a matter of hours, she had transformed from an engaging woman into a commanding stranger. “Fine. One burger coming up.”
In the elevator, I pulled out my phone and called a taxi. I might be trapped in this marriage, but I wouldn’t be completely powerless.
The next morning set the tone for my new life. Adriana woke me at 6 a.m. “Press my blue suit,” she ordered. “Then make coffee. Black, one sugar.”
“I’m not your butler,” I protested.
She shot me a cool glance. “No, you’re my husband. Which means you’re whatever I need you to be.”
Each day brought new demands: wash her car, pick up her dry cleaning, massage her feet after work. Each task felt more demeaning than the last.
“Why are you doing this?” I finally asked one evening as I polished her designer shoes.
“Because I can,” she replied simply. “What could be better than having a man who caters to my every need?”
I continued in silence, my mind racing. She thought she was breaking me, but she was inadvertently teaching me about her routines and vulnerabilities.
Eventually, I confided in my father. “She’s turned me into her personal servant.”
His expression fell. “I had no idea, son. But the contract with Victor…”
“Can’t be broken without bankrupting us,” I finished for him. “I know.”
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t be,” I replied, a plan forming in my mind. “I’ll handle Adriana.”
I installed tiny wireless cameras throughout our home, capturing evidence of her demanding behavior and threats. For two weeks, I documented her treating me like a servant while she portrayed us as the perfect couple on social media.
The breaking point came on a rainy Tuesday night. “I want sushi from Akira. You’ll walk there,” she commanded.
“That’s three miles away,” I pointed out.
“So? Take an umbrella,” she replied, not even looking up.
“No,” I said firmly.
The word hung in the air. She glared at me, her anger palpable. “You don’t say no to me. Ever.”
“Go ahead,” I challenged. “Call your father. Tell him how disappointed you are.”
“You know I will,” she said, reaching for her phone.
I smiled. “I don’t think so.”
Confusion crossed her face, but she dialed anyway, putting it on speaker. “Daddy? We have a problem. James is being difficult…”
Her father’s voice was cold. “What the hell have you been doing?”
Adriana froze. “What do you mean?”
“James sent me videos. Dozens of them. I had no idea this was your idea of a marriage! Is this how I raised you?”
The color drained from her face as she looked at me, realization dawning.
“You recorded me?” she whispered.
I nodded. “Every moment.”
Her father continued, “You’ve handed your husband enough blackmail material to destroy our family’s reputation. You’re getting divorced. Those are his conditions: a divorce that keeps the business arrangement intact.”
“Yes, Daddy,” she managed, her voice small.
When the call ended, she turned to me, desperation in her eyes. “Please, you can’t do this to me! It will ruin my image!”
I smiled, seizing the opportunity to teach her a lesson. “I’ll consider staying, but only if you obey my demands.”
Outrage flickered in her eyes, but she nodded.
For the next two weeks, I made sure she understood what it felt like to be controlled. “Fetch my coffee,” I would say. “And remember, two sugars.”
She complied, her jaw tight, her eyes filled with resentment.
Meanwhile, I had my lawyers prepare divorce papers. When they were ready, I left them on the kitchen counter for her to find.
“What’s this?” she asked, picking them up.
“Divorce papers,” I replied calmly. “Our marriage is over.”
“But you said you’d stay if I obeyed!” Her voice trembled. “You lied!”
“Yes,” I agreed. “And I hope you learned something. We could have made this work if you hadn’t used our marriage as a means to control me. Pack your things and leave.”
“And before you go,” I added, “post on your Instagram that we’re separating amicably.”
“And if I don’t?” she challenged.
I held up my phone. “Then these videos go public.”
An hour later, her carefully crafted post appeared: “After much reflection, James and I have decided to part ways. We remain committed to our families’ shared business interests and wish each other well.”