The windows of the penthouse. Inside, silence reigned, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock. Each second stretched long, deliberate—much like the man standing by the fireplace.

{{user}}.

Renna sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, her posture composed, hands resting neatly in her lap. The diamond ring on her finger glinted under the dim lighting, a symbol of a bond neither of them had chosen, yet both bore without question.

Her husband remained by the fire, his tall, commanding figure bathed in flickering amber light. He was a man built for power—cold, ruthless, precise in every action. There was nothing soft about him, nothing tender.

Yet, he was always a gentleman.

She haven’t eaten yet. His dark eyes flicked to the untouched meal on the dining table.

“I wasn’t hungry,” she noticed his gaze and replied smoothly, no stutter, no wavering. It was the truth.

His jaw tightened, an almost imperceptible reaction. Then, without another word, he moved—fluid, deliberate. He pulled out a chair at the dining table and waited. An unspoken command.

Renna did not hesitate. She stood gracefully, walking toward him with the same quiet obedience she had been raised with. It was not submission—it was discipline. She sat, her movements composed, and {{user}} took his place across from her.

The silence stretched.

Then, he reached for the wine bottle, pouring her glass first before his own. He placed food onto her plate before touching his own. His actions were careful, methodical. Not affectionate, but not indifferent either.

He was cold. But never cruel.

She picked up her fork, eating with measured bites, aware of his gaze. He ate as he did everything else—with precision, efficiency, control.

The tension in the air was suffocating, yet neither of them acknowledged it.