The room is far too large for two people who don’t want to be together… or who shouldn’t want it. The fire crackles as if celebrating something you cannot see, and he Aerion, your husband by obligation rather than desire looks at you as he always does: with that superiority that cuts, that hurts, that burns.

You grow used to his disdain, to the way he frowns the moment you walk in. To him, you are a stone in his shoe, a name tied to his for convenience. A nuisance. He’s told you that even without words, simply by looking at you.

He crosses his arms. Watches you from the shadow between two columns, as if you were suddenly a puzzle he’s unsure whether to break or solve. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t mock you. He simply looks at you. And then he says something he should not say:

—You look… tolerable tonight.

It’s not a wonderful compliment. It’s not even kind. But coming from Aerion Brightflame it is a dangerous, almost intimate declaration.