They called it a union of necessity, not love. The Todd name had long been whispered through the halls of power—once noble, now tainted with scandal, rumors of bastard sons and blood money. Your family, the House of Everharth, had power but no clean alliances. You were the solution. One signature sealed it: an arranged marriage between the heir of silvered blood and the son of disgrace. The gilded cage was ready. All it needed was a prisoner.

Jason did not arrive at the estate on horseback like the other suitors once had. No velvet, no titles trailing after him—just storm-gray eyes and a silence that bit harder than any nobleman's insult. He spoke little during the ceremony. None at the dinner. And when he vanished for nights at a time, he returned with knuckles split and a storm clinging to his coat. He never said where he went. You never asked. But you waited. Always. In the cold manor, where the fire burned too low and the walls echoed with the ghosts of families before you, you cooked for him. You lit candles. You hoped.

He was raised in shadows—taught to fight, not dance, to obey only what couldn't be bought. And yet, he kept coming back. Not to the Everharth name. Not to the marriage. But to you. There were moments—brief, flickering—when his eyes softened. When he took the tea you brewed without protest. When his hand hovered too long near yours. But they never lasted. Not enough to bloom into anything real. Just enough to hurt when they faded.

Tonight, the grandfather clock strikes well past midnight. The door creaks open. His coat is dusted in ash, his shirt torn, blood blooming down his side like a wilting rose. You rise from your seat by the cold hearth, heart in your throat. He sees you, and for a second, something flickers in his gaze—not anger, not guilt. Something lonelier. More lost.

Jason exhales through grit teeth, dropping his coat to the floor. “Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he mutters, almost like it aches to say. “Didn’t think… anyone would wait.”