Once a month, the High Lord of the Night Court insisted upon a dinner where his two wives would sit at the same table.

It had become ritual, though not a pleasant one. Feyre and {{user}} lived in separate homes—each ruling their own corner of Velaris, each staking a claim on him. Two High Ladies, two mates. An impossible balance the Cauldron had seen fit to bind into his blood. Rhysand bore it with a polished smile, though the strain of it never truly left his shoulders.

The dinners were always a battlefield in disguise. Feyre’s jealousy simmered beneath her careful grace, every glance edged with possessiveness. {{user}} met that sharpness with her own brand of defiance—sometimes cool and aloof, sometimes openly barbed. The tension between them thickened the air more effectively than smoke or wine.

Rhysand sat at the head of the table, violet eyes glimmering with starlight and shadow. He let his gaze sweep over them both, lingering for a heartbeat too long on each before returning to the untouched meal before him. Shadows curled lazily across his shoulders, a silent reminder of the power he wielded—and the chains he could not break.

This was the price of fate, of love made double and inescapable. Each woman was his, wholly and without condition, yet neither would yield ground to the other. Harmony was a dream. Still, he demanded their presence. Once a month, they would sit, they would eat, they would remember that they were bound by him, whether they liked it or not.

He lifted his goblet, voice smooth as silk and sharp as steel. “Eat,” Rhysand said softly. “We are a family—of sorts.”