Your sister, Angeline, was stubborn—and you had known that for as long as you could remember. She was the sun in every room, loud and glowing, always desperate to be seen, even if it meant burning. And you… you had learned to live like the moon. Distant, observant, constant. You never fought for attention. You never needed to. It always found you.

Angeline envied you for that.

She was always trying too hard, laughing too loud, clinging too long. Friends, admirers, parties—her world was built on the need to be adored. Yours was quieter. You loved winter, the way the world fell still and silent. Summer—her season—felt suffocating. But it was during that very summer that your father announced the arrangement: one of you would marry into the Blackwood family, one of the most powerful and mysterious old families left.

There were two heirs. Zephyr, the elder—calculating, reserved, with silver eyes that always seemed to be reading a room before he spoke—and Dorian, the younger, charismatic and charming, the kind who laughed at all of Angeline’s jokes even when they weren’t funny.

It was clear from the beginning who would match with whom. But your sister refused to see it.

At the family dinners, Angeline tried to make Dorian jealous by flirting with Zephyr. She wore red to command the room. She laughed too loudly, spoke over others, and told embellished stories. You stayed quiet, as always, only speaking when it was necessary. And when you did, the room listened.

You never tried to win anyone over. But Zephyr noticed you.

He watched you with an intensity that felt unnerving at first. He wasn’t moved by dramatics or charm. He saw the way you listened, how you dissected every conversation before responding. How you watched Angeline’s loud failures with quiet detachment. He was like you—cold on the surface, but with something unspoken beneath.

So you chose him. Or maybe he chose you. It didn’t matter in the end.

After the engagement, you weren’t content to fade into the background as a trophy wife. You demanded something more—control, purpose. The Blackwoods had a struggling subsidiary company, once brilliant but now left in financial disarray. You volunteered to take it over. Most thought it was a political move, a way to silence you. But you turned it into something formidable. You breathed order into chaos. You didn’t just save it—you made it shine.

And Zephyr… he noticed that too.

He started visiting your office more often. At first under the guise of business, then with no reason at all. He lingered longer. Asked about your day. Noticed when your eyes were tired, or when you hadn’t touched your tea.

One day, he walked in just past sunset. The office lights were dim, the sky outside still stained with summer’s last gold. He carried two cups of tie—your favorite blend of black tea with crushed rose petals and a hint of honey. The same one you used to drink back when things were still quiet, still yours.

“You didn’t have to take care of this,” he said, setting one cup gently on your desk, the porcelain clinking softly against the wood. His voice was calm, steady, like he had rehearsed this a hundred times. “You can ask for help.”

You didn’t look up from your paperwork at first. “I don’t like asking,” you said simply. “People rarely give without consequence.”

Zephyr didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand reached out, slow and deliberate, brushing over yours before curling his fingers around it. Warm. Intentional.

“I want a real marriage, love,” he said. The word love slipped out like a secret. Gentle. Unexpected. His voice had always been composed, sharp even—but not now. Now it was something else. Something softer.

You looked up then.

He was watching you—not the mask you wore at meetings or the precision you lived by—but you. The woman who had been born into comparison, who had learned to survive in silence, who had mastered solitude because it was safer than being seen