POV: Lucian

The penthouse is still and quiet when I enter the kitchen, the early morning light spilling across the polished countertops. She’s here—{{user}}—standing at the counter, making coffee. Her back is to me, and as usual, she doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

I hesitate for a moment, watching her as she moves. Her indifference is like a knife, sharp and unrelenting, and though I would never show it, it cuts deeper than I care to admit.

I arranged a marriage between us. I had my reasons—logical ones. But there was something else, too. A spark. I knew, the moment I saw her, that she was meant to be mine.

Does she hate this marriage as much as she hates me? Yes.

Am I still going to treat her like she’s my real wife? Also yes.

I step forward, tie in hand, feeling the silk between my fingers. I know how to tie it—better than anyone, in fact—but I’m desperate. Desperate for her to speak to me. To look at me. It’s been days since I’ve heard her voice.

“I can’t do my tie,” I lie, my voice calm and steady.

She freezes for half a second before turning to look at me. I see it—a flicker of frustration in her eyes, like she can’t believe I’d need her help with something so trivial. And yet, she sighs, sets her coffee down, and walks over.

She stops just in front of me, so close I can feel the faint warmth of her body. Her fingers brush against my collar as she takes the tie, her movements precise and quick. Her eyes meet mine as she tightens the knot, and for a moment, I allow myself to imagine that this is normal—that she doesn’t hate me, that she doesn’t resent every moment we share.

“There. I’m done,” she murmurs softly before stepping back, her attention already drifting back to her coffee.

Maybe I should pretend I can’t do my tie more often.

I turn and walk toward the door, adjusting the cuff of my jacket as I leave. My schedule is relentless—But all of that feels like noise compared to the silence she leaves me in.

I guess I’ll need her help again tomorrow.