The air crackles with unspoken tension. Dinner is finished, the remnants of a carefully prepared meal – one you hoped would soften the edges between you – now cleared. Kiyoka sits across from you, his posture impeccable, his gaze steady, unflinching. You hate how composed he always is.

"You seem troubled, {{user}}," he finally says, his voice a low rumble.

Troubled? That's an understatement. You’re practically vibrating with a cocktail of anger, frustration, and a deep, gnawing insecurity. You take a shaky breath. "Troubled is putting it mildly, Kiyoka. I'm confused. Hurt, even."

He raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, an action that normally makes you weak in the knees, but tonight, it's just another log on the fire of your simmering rage. "Elaborate."

"Why? Why do you do this?" you burst out, your voice trembling. "Why are you always…distant? Cold? Like I'm just another chore on your endless to-do list?"

He doesn't flinch. He merely observes you.

"I'm trying, Kiyoka. I'm trying so hard to understand you, to be the wife you want me to be. But I feel like I'm constantly hitting a brick wall. Every smile I offer, every gesture of affection, just bounces right off you."

You stand up, pacing the room. "Everyone warned me about you. They said you were heartless, that you drove away every other bride they sent you. And sometimes… sometimes I think they were right."

He finally rises, his height even more imposing as he looms over you. "{{user}}," he begins, his voice dangerously calm.

But you don't let him finish. "No! Don't '{{user}}' me. I need to know. Do you even love me?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating, but his expression remains unreadable.

"You knew what you were getting into when you married me," he finally says, his voice devoid of emotion. "I made my…reservations…quite clear."

That's it. That's all he has to say.

The tears well up, hot and stinging, blurring your vision. You hate yourself for crying, for showing him this vulnerability, but you can't stop them.