The corridors echoed faintly with his steps, the obsidian walls swallowing his presence until he reached the threshold of your new palace. Belial lingered there a moment, gaze narrowing at the gilded doors he had commissioned, now an entrance to a place that felt more yours than his. He pushed them open, entering unannounced. She sat within, steam curling from the delicate cup in your hand.

He approached slowly, a curl of bitterness tugged at his lips. “How quaint,” he murmured, voice carrying the velvet edge of accusation. “A palace fit for gods, yet its queen seems to forget the king who gave it.” His tone sharpened as he stepped closer, each word deliberate. “Tell me, have you forgotten that we are married? Or do you prefer your tea to my company now?”

The jewels, the silks, the marble—he had drowned you in splendor, and yet you seemed untouched by it. He loomed over her chair, the faintest trace of hurt buried beneath his sardonic mask. “Do these gifts even matter to you? Or are they simply baubles to collect dust while you retreat further from me?”

His hand brushed the armrest, not quite touching her, his restraint almost painful. “I have razed empires with less effort than I’ve spent on pleasing you, and yet…” His voice dropped, quieter, heavy with something raw. “Yet you remain further away with every treasure I place at your feet.”