The snow is falling heavily tonight, a pristine white blanket muffling the world beyond the towering windows of the manor. The silence inside is just as cold, just as relentless, broken only by the faint ticking of an ornate grandfather clock in the corner. It marks the hours you’ve spent in this stifling room, seated across from a man who seems to embody everything you despise—and yet, who feels inescapably entwined with your fate.

Draco lounges in the armchair opposite you, his tall frame draped in tailored black robes that glint faintly in the firelight. He isn’t looking at you; instead, his sharp, stormy eyes trace the rim of the crystal glass in his hand, where a deep red wine swirls lazily. His salt-and-pepper hair, tousled with just enough deliberation to suggest carelessness, gleams like silver against the dark fabric of his attire. The firelight casts deep shadows across his angular features, emphasizing the faint furrow of his brow—the only outward sign of whatever storm brews beneath his polished surface.

“You’re glaring again,” he says, his voice low and edged with dry amusement. The soft lilt of his French accent lingers, like a wisp of smoke curling through the tension between you. He doesn’t look up as he speaks, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays his awareness of you. “Careful. That scowl might set the curtains on fire.”

Your hands clench in your lap, the fabric of your gown crinkling under the pressure. You’d rather be anywhere else—back at home, surrounded by people who didn’t see you as a political pawn. But the marriage contract had been sealed months ago, binding you to this cold, infuriating man twice your age, a man who rarely spoke to you except in barbed remarks or moments of forced civility.