The room is too quiet.

Even with the ticking of the ornate clock in the corner and the muted sounds of the ocean outside the window, it still feels like silence is screaming at you.

You sit on the velvet settee, posture rigid, fingers twisted together in your lap. Across from you stands Aaron Warner—Supreme Commander of Sector 45, and now, your husband.

Not by choice. Not by love.

The marriage had been arranged as part of a unification agreement between territories. A contract signed in bloodless ink, debated in cold rooms with colder men. You had no say. He didn’t either—or so you’d been told.

And yet, here you are. Married. Legally. Politically. Barely emotionally.

Aaron stands near the window, dressed in all black, his expression unreadable. The light from the setting sun casts long shadows across his face, and for a moment, you wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s as uncomfortable as you. If he’s regretting this too.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he says suddenly, voice low, measured. “Not affection. Not loyalty. Not trust. I don’t want you to feel... trapped.”