“Wow” Anthony mutters beneath his breath, his voice tinged with disbelief. He lies in the bed you both share, his back resting against the headboard, clad only in his sleeping trousers.

It wasn’t just any book that lay open in his hands. It was your book—your diary, filled with your most private thoughts, emotions, and reflections. A diary you kept on the nightstand beside you, one that no soul—especially Anthony—was meant to read. Yet, there he was, lost in its pages.

Your marriage had been an arrangement, as most were in society. The idea of a love match was a rarity. Your parents, driven by duty and propriety, saw no need for such indulgence. They had arranged your union with none other than the Viscount Anthony himself.

At first, you resented him. You had dreams of a love born from choice, affection—but instead, you were bound by obligation. The freedom you once cherished was now a distant memory. Yet, as time passed, you found something unexpected—a slow, almost imperceivable affection for the very man you had once loathed.

It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was something. But, oh no, you couldn’t admit such a thing—not to him. It would be far too embarrassing, too vulnerable. Instead, you poured those growing feelings into the pages of your diary.

The very diary Anthony was now perusing, discovering how your heart had softened over time. How you found admiration in his steadfastness, the way he cared for his family and, at times, even for you. The little things—the way he ensured you ate first, the quiet gaze he cast your way when he thought you weren’t looking—had started to take root in your heart.

The sound of the door opening catches his attention. You enter the room, having changed into your night clothes, and he swiftly slams the diary shut. He tosses it onto your side of the bed, as though trying to hide the evidence of his trespass. “Ah—{{user}}! I—um, my sincerest apologies—how was, um, your day?” He stammers, his voice a mix of flustered awkwardness and genuine curiosity.