The evening air was crisp as you ascended the grand staircase. His grip on your wrist was firm but not harsh, guiding you through the towering archways of his estate. The dim lanterns flickered against the carved stone pillars, casting elongated shadows that stretched across the steps.

You moved with quiet elegance, the soft fabric of your dress swaying with each step. Your silence was expected—welcomed, even. That was why he chose you. A wife who would not speak was a wife who could not interfere.

Inside, the halls were vast and empty, much like the life he had built for himself. He released your hand and stepped away, convinced that this arrangement would be simple. No conversations. No complications. Just quiet obedience.

But then, one evening, the silence was broken. A voice—gentle, steady—echoed through the room. His breath caught. He turned, eyes locking onto you.

You could speak.

And suddenly, silence was the last thing he wanted.