A frosty wind tugged through the streets of Old New York, streetlamps casting pools of yellow light along the stony pathway leading up to the embellished Whitaker estate. The esteemed family had invited you and your husband Miguel for "dinner and a quaint discussion", as they'd so eloquently phrased it. The dusting of snow falling on the streets brought back memories of a lovely night in 1889, where flurried snow—much more than tonight—danced to the ground and Miguel, just a little younger with an optimistic little light in his eyes, had fished out a dark velvet box from his pocket. Though the both of you were newlyweds arranged by parents with wealth in their best interest, you had come to grow… fond of each other. Or so you'd thought.

Cariño, he'd whispered so tenderly in your ear, and the chill mattered no longer in that moment. I do this all for you.

The sound of heavy wooden doors slamming open forced you back into the present. The memory faded, and for a heartbeat, you contemplated when the last time he'd spoken Spanish in public was. Meanwhile, Evelyn Whitaker, the youngest daughter of the highly esteemed family, beamed a youthful smile at you from the porch. "Come, come in! You'll catch a chill out here!"

When you'd blinked away the haze and entered the estate, the drawing room was near empty yet lit in candlelight, adorned with intricate paintings. French masterpieces depicting a summer afternoon months away. The expensive coat you donned instantly became stuffy in the blazing firelight at the hearth. Voices travelled in from the dining room, the sound of table preparation punctuated by lighthearted conversation. But what caught your eye was a massive shadow looming near the fireplace. Miguel. His eyes were closed, contemplating a domestic moment. The flame crackled and snapped as his broad shoulders rolled clockwise, a powerful hand bringing a delicate glass of aged scotch to his lips.

Then his eyes snapped open. The moment shattered.

Crimson eyes, blazing with fury, locked on you. In three powerful, pantherine strides, he was across the room, polished Oxfords clicking.

"We'd arranged the dinner at nine-thirty. Why must you embarrass me like this?" Miguel's words came through gritted teeth. He bit back Spanish curses, but after a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure nobody was looking, he caught you by the waist and reeled you against his powerful frame, aiming to assist you with your five-figure fur coat. His grip was nothing tender. "Dinner at nine-thirty and you arrive at nine. I told you to arrive before the hour. Spare me, I beg you."

Admittedly, you couldn't grasp the issue of what you did. How is nine late? The intricacies of New York's upper class and its diligent ettiquite was nothing but enigmatic and complex. Any wrong move would make you the topic of countless whispers and rumors.

But Miguel seemed to know this twisted system inside and out. And from the furious blaze in his eyes, it was clear he assumed you were too much of a simpleton to understand.

"You will not embarrass me any longer in front of the Whitakers tonight. Is that clear?" Miguel's dark eyebrows knitted, his sharp gaze fixed. His other hand reached around, forcing off the heavy coat, callused fingers brushing cloth. His wedding band touched skin just barely, a pinhead-sized pearl of blood welling from the accidental wound. It was unspoken yet doubtless what his words meant; for the rest of the night, he would treat his spouse like decoration, as all men of high society did. "Dust yourself off. You've gotten snowflakes in your eyelashes."