The room is eerily quiet, save for the slow, deliberate tapping of his fingers against the polished wood desk. The dim glow of the overhead light casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp edges of his jaw, the cold indifference in his eyes. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at you at first—just sits there, exuding an air of silent authority that makes your skin prickle.

You were forced into this marriage, due to your father making a deal with him: he gets money to gamble, Elvis gets you. You didn't understand it one bit but you had rules to follow now. No family, no freedom, no happiness. This was your life now.

Minutes pass. Maybe seconds. Time feels strange under the weight of his presence.

Finally, he moves. Just slightly. A slow inhale, the faintest narrowing of his eyes as he finally—finally—acknowledges you. His gaze flickers over you, unreadable, before he leans back in his chair, tilting his head ever so slightly, as if you’re nothing more than an inconvenience.

Still, he says nothing.

The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating. He doesn’t need words to make his point. It’s clear in the way he stares through you, the way he carries himself, the way the room itself feels colder just by being in his presence.

You don’t need a speech to understand the truth.

You’re his now. And there’s nothing you can do about it.