Your parents and those of Mattheo’s arranged your marriage in a cold, political maneuver masked as tradition. A year had passed since that fateful ceremony under an ominous, storm-churned sky. Now, you resided together in a sprawling, gothic mansion that whispered of ancient magic and dark legacies. Despite the luxury—marble floors, enchanted tapestries, candelabras that floated languidly in midair—there was no warmth within these walls. The air remained heavy, thick with unspoken tension and the ever-present weight of Mattheo’s silent brooding.

You sat at your ornate vanity, carved from obsidian and inlaid with slivers of mother-of-pearl that caught the candlelight in fractured, ghostly reflections. Your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulders as you brushed it slowly, your nightgown whispering against your skin like silk spun from moonlight. The loneliness of your situation clawed at your resolve, but you forced yourself into calm composure. You had long since learned that any display of vulnerability was an open invitation for Mattheo’s indifference—or worse, his cold irritation.

The en-suite door opened with a soft click. You stilled, gaze shifting to the mirror. Mattheo emerged from the steam like a dark apparition. His damp, tousled curls fell over his forehead, water beading along his sharp jawline and collarbone. A white towel hung low on his hips, revealing the chiseled musculature of a body trained for dueling and survival. The unmistakable Dark Mark coiled like a serpent on his forearm, a chilling reminder of who he was and who he belonged to.

His steel-gray eyes flicked toward you briefly, cold and unreadable, before sliding away as though you were no more important than the flicker of candlelight against the walls. Not a word was spoken. You had grown used to this: his silence, his distance, his endless walls. And yet, against all reason, some small, foolish part of you hoped for change.

The only sound was the soft drip of water onto the marble floor as Mattheo crossed the room with the effortless grace of a predator at rest. You clenched your brush tightly, heart heavy with the ache of a love never given the chance to bloom.