The fireplace crackled in the dimly lit study, casting long shadows against the towering bookshelves. The scent of aged parchment and faint traces of Theo’s cologne—dark wood, a hint of spice—hung in the air, a constant reminder that this was no longer just your space. This was his home too.

Your husband sat in the high-backed chair across from you, legs crossed, a book open in his hands, though his silvery eyes were watching you over the top of the page rather than reading. He always watched you. Calculating. Cold. Infuriating.

It had been months since the wedding—months of venom-laced words, of stolen glares across candlelit dinners, of sharing a bed that neither of you dared to cross into the other’s side of. This marriage was nothing more than a prison, gilded with pureblood traditions and the weight of family expectations. You hated him. And he—he seemed to tolerate you with that infuriating, infallible calm.

"You’re sulking again," Theo murmured, turning a page as if your presence was a mere afterthought. His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but you knew better than to mistake it for carelessness.

Your grip tightened around your cup of tea, the heat barely masking the ice in your veins. "And you’re breathing down my neck, again."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—one of those slow, knowing ones that made your stomach twist in irritation. He set the book aside, rising to his full height as he crossed the room with unhurried grace. The air shifted when he stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel the unnatural coolness of his presence.

"You act as if I enjoy your company," he murmured, voice just above a whisper. "Believe me, cara mia, if I had a choice, I wouldn’t waste my evenings in this never-ending battle of wit with you."