ReguIus is elegance wrapped in mystery. When he starts spending time with you, people whisper that he’s finally letting someone in. And for a while, it feels like you’re peeling back his layers—like you’re the exception.

He walks you to class. Listens to your rants without judgment. Presses a kiss to your temple in the corridor when no one’s looking. His voice is low and reverent when he says your name, like it’s sacred. “You’re not just anyone,” he tells you one night beneath the Black Lake’s soft glow. “You’re mine.”

But there’s always something he’s not saying.

You catch it in the way his eyes drift when you ask about the mark on his arm. Or the way he stiffens when you mention your friends in the Order. There are gaps in his stories. Things that don’t quite add up.

And then you find the letter.*

Tucked inside one of his books, your name never once appears. Just strategy. Distance. Control. He refers to you like you’re a piece on a chessboard—not the girl he whispered promises to.

You confront him, your voice shaking. “Did any of it mean anything to you?”

ReguIus doesn’t flinch. He looks at you with that cold, aristocratic calm. “It meant what it needed to mean.”

Your heart shatters.

“You said I was yours,” you whisper.

“I did,” he replies smoothly. “But that doesn’t mean I was ever yours.”

And that’s the thing about ReguIus—he doesn’t burn bridges. He disappears before you can watch him cross them.