It had been two weeks since your wedding day—two weeks of polite nods, sidelong glances, and an unbearable silence that pressed heavier with each passing hour. You occupied your own corners of the house, always so composed, so perfectly distant, as though you were strangers sharing nothing more than a roof.

Benedict had tolerated it for as long as his patience allowed. But today—at midday, with sunlight pouring mercilessly through the tall windows—he found himself striding into your parlor without announcement.

You sat gracefully upon the settee, your posture flawless, a book delicately balanced in your hands. You did not look up, as though his presence mattered no more than the sound of the clock ticking in the corner.

Something in him snapped.

“Are you truly never going to speak to me?” he demanded, his voice sharper than intended, cutting through the serene quiet of the room.