Four months into this marriage, the silence is worse than the shouting.

You didn’t expect anything less from Bartemius Crouch Jr., the infamous, brooding shadow of a man who is now—against every logical reason—your husband. It wasn’t your choice, nor his. Arranged marriages, the union of necessity, are supposed to build alliances, not bonds. Yet here you are, locked in a frigid truce of shared glares, terse words, and a quiet resentment that clings to the air like smoke.

The carriage rattles beneath you as the countryside rolls by in the dead of night. Outside, the storm has turned the road into a muddy labyrinth, every crack of thunder drowning the occasional thud of rain on the roof. Inside, the tension between you and Barty is electric—though neither of you has spoken since the argument at the manor earlier.

His voice had been cutting, his accusation laced with venom. “You always seem to enjoy their company a little too much,” he’d sneered, brown eyes narrowing. “Flirting won’t save you from your obligations.”

The insinuation still burns, though you’d barely managed to bite back your reply. How dare he accuse you? He barely tolerates you most days, dismissing your every effort to coexist with a scoff or a sharp tongue.

Now, you sit across from him, arms crossed tightly over your chest, staring out at the rain-streaked window. He doesn’t look at you either, but you can feel the weight of his presence—too heavy, too close, too alive with barely restrained anger.

The carriage suddenly jolts, throwing you forward. You clutch at the seat for balance, only to realize that the vehicle is slowing. A curse from the driver echoes outside as the horses whinny in protest.