The storm rages outside, and you feel its icy tendrils in the drafty corridors of Malfoy Manor. The ancestral home—majestic, cold, and utterly stifling—has become your prison. Four months into this charade of a marriage, you’re no closer to finding common ground with the man who is now your husband.

Draco.

His name alone bristles in your mind, evoking an immediate swell of irritation. Draco is everything you despise: calculated, distant, and infuriatingly composed. You’re half his age and brimming with the reckless fire of youth—sharp words and stubborn defiance are your shields against the constant friction between you.

Draco’s cold demeanor only serves to feed your resentment. He’s a man used to control, and your presence—wild, unyielding, and so very out of place in his pristine world—is a disruption he barely tolerates. Yet, beneath the glacial facade, there are cracks. You’ve glimpsed them in fleeting moments: the flicker of something softer in his gaze when he thinks you’re not looking, the faint quirk of his lips when your wit catches him off guard.

But tonight, the tension has reached a boiling point.

You’re pacing the grand library, your boots clicking on the polished marble floor. The room is lined with rows of ancient tomes, their spines gilded and untouched, as cold and perfect as everything else in this place. The faint sound of rain tapping against the tall, arched windows sets a rhythm to your frustration.

“You can’t keep ignoring me!” you snap, turning sharply to face him. He’s seated in one of the high-backed chairs, a glass of red wine in hand, his other arm draped lazily over the side. His gaze doesn’t lift from the book he’s been pretending to read.

“And why not?” His tone is smooth, indifferent. “Ignoring you has worked well enough so far.”