The storm outside was fierce tonight. Rain lashed against the tall windows of the estate, the distant thunder shaking the walls, but inside the sitting room, the tension was far worse than anything the storm could conjure. You sat across from James, your forced husband of four months, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp features and highlighting the streaks of silver in his unruly black hair.

Four months. Four excruciating months of sharing this grand, hollow mansion with a man you loathed. Or told yourself you loathed. A man twice your age, with an arrogance so refined it felt as if he could cut you down with a single look. He wasn’t speaking, of course. James never spoke when he could simmer instead, and right now, the silence between you was thick enough to choke on.

It wasn’t always like this. The beginning was worse. Neither of you had even attempted civility at first. You, because you’d had your life upended and tethered to this man without your consent. Him, because he’d made it very clear he didn’t want to marry someone so much younger than him—“a child,” he’d muttered once under his breath, though you’d been old enough to throw your drink at him in response.

Now, though, the hostility had settled into something quieter. Not peace, not by any stretch, but an uneasy truce borne of exhaustion.

“I’m going to the Ministry tomorrow,” James finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was rich, deep, with a faint accent that lingered on certain words. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his hazel eyes fixed on the fire. “Don’t wait up.”