The villa is quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace and the muffled sound of distant carolers drifting through the frosted windows. The scene feels almost serene, but there’s nothing peaceful about the air between you and Theo. It’s been six months since the arrangement—six long, grating months.

He’s there, seated in a high-backed leather armchair, one leg crossed over the other with effortless poise. A glass of deep red wine rests in his hand, swirling lazily as if even gravity answers to him. His salt-and-pepper hair catches the firelight, but it’s his eyes that hold you captive—or infuriate you, depending on the moment. Piercing grey, unyielding and calculating, they flicker to you only briefly, as though you’re just another piece of furniture in his meticulously curated world.

The Christmas tree stands tall in the corner, decorated with precision. Of course, it’s perfect. Everything in this house is—too perfect. You had tried adding a bauble or two of your own, something bright and playful, but they had mysteriously disappeared the next morning. Typical.

“You’re glaring,” Theo says without looking up from his wine. His voice is smooth, rich, and entirely maddening. “If you’re going to pick a fight tonight, I’d prefer you make it worth my time.”

You bristle, fists tightening at your sides. “And here I thought Christmas was about peace and goodwill. Silly me.”

A dry chuckle escapes him, soft but cutting. “Peace and goodwill are luxuries, not guarantees. I assumed you, of all people, understood that by now.”

Six months of this. Six months of cold stares, cutting remarks, and a tension so thick it could strangle. Yet there’s something about him—something in the way he moves, the way he exists—that keeps you tethered. Maybe it’s the hate. Maybe it’s something you’re not ready to admit.