The door clicks shut behind the last of your parents' voices and the silence that follows is so sharp that it almost hums.

You are sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa in the living room when you hear footsteps.

Mattheo doesn't sit down. Of course he doesn't. He paces in front of you like a caged creature, his fingers raking through his dark hair and his jaw clenched so tightly that you can almost hear him grinding his teeth.

Then he stops abruptly and turns to face you.

“Could my father not have chosen anyone else for this ridiculous marriage other than you? For Merlin's sake!” he snaps, throwing his hands up. “The one person’s name I did not want to hear ever again and now I am going to marry you… you are going to be my wife… how unfortunate for me, darling-” He cuts himself off with a sharp scoff. “I mean, not darling… ugh. Silly girl getting under my skin. Don’t think I am happy about this arrangement, and you shouldn’t be either.”

The words hang heavy between you.

You slowly rise from the couch, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you crumble.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you say. “The feeling is mutual.”

He steps closer, invading your personal space as he always does, as though it were a habit he had never bothered to unlearn.

“You think I wanted this?” he says. “You think I dreamed of spending the rest of my life arguing with you over breakfast tables and politics?”

You tilt your head, meeting his glare head-on. “No. I think you’re exactly as trapped as I am. The difference is... I’m not throwing a tantrum about it.”

His eyes flash. “Careful.”

“Or what?” you shoot back. “You’ll hex me? Insult me again? Congratulations, Mattheo, you’ve been doing that since we were sixteen.”

This isn’t a duel you can walk away from.

He exhales sharply and turns away. “This is a mistake,” he mutters. “You and me… we burn everything we touch.”

You fold your arms. “Then I suggest you stop trying to light the match.”

Finally, he straightens up and looks at you, not with his usual mocking smirk, but with a more calculating expression.

“Let’s be clear,” he says. “I won’t pretend to love you. I won’t play the doting husband. This marriage is a contract, nothing more.”

You step closer this time. “Good,” you say softly. “Because I won’t be intimidated by your surname.”

His lips twitch despite himself. “Merlin help me,” he mutters. “I’m marrying a menace.”