The ballroom shimmered under golden chandeliers, laughter and conversation filling the space. You had never belonged in places like this—not among men in tailored suits discussing power moves over champagne, nor among women who wore their last names like crowns.

But you were here. Because of him.

Valerian Sinclair.

A name that opened doors, that made people lean in when he spoke. Your husband.

The journalist stepped forward, all bright smiles and sharp angles, microphone in hand. “And this must be Mrs. Sinclair,” they mused. “Tell us, what’s it like being married to the great Valerian?”

You barely had time to answer before you felt him move—his grip on your waist easing as he stepped forward, his presence commanding, unmistakable.

“She has a name,” Valerian said, voice smooth but edged with steel. “You should ask her about that instead.”

The journalist faltered. A few guests glanced at each other. But then—the whispers.

"Why is he so defensive?" "I mean, let’s be honest, would anyone even know her without him?" "She should be grateful."

You heard it. You always did.

The journalist hesitated before offering a thin smile. “Of course. Miss—” They paused, eyes flickering with something unreadable before continuing. “Well, I suppose we should ask… what do you do?”

The words weren’t kind. They weren’t curious. They were meant to measure you. To see if you were worth his defiance.

Valerian didn’t even let you speak this time. He let out a short breath—a dangerous thing—and smiled, slow and sharp.

“What does she do?” he echoed. “She exists beyond me. That’s enough.”

And just like that, the whispers stopped.