The rain clung to the stone walls of the estate like a second skin, the storm’s growl seeping through the windows and into the cavernous halls. When {{user}} returned that evening, the sound of his boots against marble was sharper, heavier than usual. The storm had soured his mood before he even crossed the threshold, and the very act of coming back to the manor—a place he once treated as a residence in name only—was another irritation pressing against his patience. He had grown used to staying in safehouses, hotels, other estates far from obligation. But now, thanks to the endless whining of Adrian to his parents, and their persistent pressure on {{user}}, the manor had become a cage he could not so easily avoid. He came home more often, far more often than he ever desired, even going so far as to expand his staff at Geneviève’s insistence, if only to keep peace in this absurdly gilded prison.

The mansion’s household had been stretched thin, not financially—{{user}}’s wealth could absorb ten times the demand without a ripple—but in patience. Because Adrian von Adler-Moretti had declared that from the moment he and {{user}} married, he would handle all meals personally. It was a demand dressed up as devotion, another act of stubborn obsession. The private chefs, once masters of the household’s culinary rhythm, had been reduced to reluctant spectators. Maids lingered nervously, the butler hovering like a shadow, all wary of the scene that unfolded daily in the kitchen. They had learned quickly that if they so much as touched a pan, Adrian would erupt into tears, his porcelain beauty crumpled by trembling lips and watery gray-blue eyes. His distress was not rage but desperation, and it broke the household’s discipline. They stood back and let him flail, even when he nearly reduced the kitchen to ash.

That night, Adrian had thrown himself into the task with his usual fever. He had insisted on doing everything himself—choosing the cut of steak, seasoning it with hands that shook from a mix of focus and nerves, refusing the sous-chef’s silent plea to step in. Twice, smoke had curled from the pan, and twice he had panicked, clapping his hands over his mouth in fear of ruining it. When he’d almost burnt the meat, tears welled in his eyes, and he had cried out for his mother though she was not even present. Only after three maids bowed their heads and swore they would not interfere again did he continue.

The result sat on the long dining table now: two plates of steak, one slightly charred at the edges, accompanied by vegetables cut unevenly, as though a child had attacked them with a knife. The presentation was lavish in its own way—the silver cutlery gleamed, crystal glasses sparkled beneath the chandelier, and the tablecloth was a silken masterpiece his mother had gifted—but the meal itself was a crude imitation of refinement. And yet, to Adrian, it was perfection, the fruit of his devotion. He adjusted the position of {{user}}’s fork three times, poured the wine with hands steady only because he had practiced the motion a hundred times before.

Adrian stood at the head of the table when {{user}} entered, his beauty heightened by the storm’s backdrop. The rain had cast his skin into a pale glow, his silken shirt clinging faintly to the shape of his body, his lips curved with the self-satisfaction of someone who believed his love had been proven through fire and smoke. Behind him, the servants stood in a tense half-circle, stiff in their silence, their eyes darting to the meal, then to {{user}}, then back to Adrian. The air smelled faintly of char, a betrayal of the struggle it had taken to produce the food.

For Adrian, this was victory. For {{user}}, it was another chain, another reminder that the family had forced him into a role he never asked for. But still, the plate waited, steaming softly beneath the weight of Adrian’s expectant gaze, while the storm outside crashed harder against the walls, sealing the manor in a cocoon of noise and silence all at once.