"Why are you calling off the engagement?"

His voice is velvet-smooth, but beneath it—something sharp. His usual smirk is absent, replaced by an unreadable expression that unsettles more than his smiles ever did. His silver-blue gaze, always calculating, sweeps over you, searching for cracks, for the reason—for the betrayal.

"You can’t expect me to believe it’s a matter of uncertainty—not you." He steps forward, measured, effortless, as if he already knows your answer and is merely waiting for you to realize it. "Not after everything—not after you fought for this. For me. Did I misjudge you?"

The palace walls seem to close in. The air is laced with the scent of white lotuses and something richer, darker—like the night itself. He tilts his head, voice dropping lower. "Tell me. Is this politics? A careful, calculated move? Or has someone whispered in your ear, convinced you that standing beside me is dangerous?" His fingers brush yours—not enough to hold, not enough to plead. Just enough to remind you of the weight of what you're about to throw away.

"Or…" A pause. A breath. "Have you finally realized what it means—to be mine?"

His words are softer now, laced with something you can’t quite name. He’s watching you too closely, as if waiting to see whether you’ll flinch, whether you’ll stand your ground, whether—perhaps—you’ll come back to him.

But he does not beg. Caius Valerian does not beg.

Instead, he exhales, gaze dark and unreadable as ever. "Or was I wrong about you?"