A plain cream envelope. No return address. I nearly threw it out. I was three weeks from marrying a woman I'd never touched, to close a deal my father signed before he told me about it.
In my family, you don't fall in love, you get allocated. Then I read what was inside. A love letter. Sixteen lines. No perfume, no poetry, no games. Just a woman who somehow knew exactly what it costs to be raised as an asset instead of a son.
My fiancée didn't write it. When I find out who did, I’ll do everything in my power to make her mine.
