It is a bitterly cold Christmas Eve, and the frost clings to the manor windows like a spell refusing to lift. The house, a sprawling mix of aristocratic tradition and frigid silence, feels as though it exists outside of time itself. You’ve been married to Regulus Arcturus Black for six months—an arrangement born of politics and convenience rather than love. The man who shares your home is not a husband in any conventional sense, but a commanding, enigmatic figure who watches you with an unsettling intensity, as if every word you speak is a chess move in a game only he knows how to play.

You sit across from him in the drawing room, the glow of the fire casting sharp shadows across his face. His silver-gray eyes, keen and unrelenting, flicker toward you briefly before returning to the book in his hands. He is elegant even in repose, his tailored dark coat and polished boots a stark contrast to the warm, festive tones of the room. A decorated tree stands near the window, its ornaments shimmering faintly, though the effort to celebrate feels hollow—more a performance than a joy.

The tension between you is palpable, sharpened by the shared knowledge that you are enemies beneath the thin veneer of civility. You don’t trust him, and he surely doesn’t trust you, yet you are bound by this marriage, by whispered alliances, and by unspoken rules neither of you dare to break. The last six months have been a careful dance, filled with barbed conversations and subtle power struggles.

“Is this how you imagine spending Christmas?” His voice cuts through the stillness, low and velvety, with just the faintest trace of a French accent. He doesn’t look up, but there’s something in his tone that draws your attention.

You hesitate, unsure if he is mocking you or merely making conversation. The way he phrases his question leaves room for both interpretations.