The room feels stifling tonight. The low hum of music plays in the background, the kind of soft jazz that belongs in smoke-filled lounges, not in the middle of a cramped diplomatic gala. You stand at the edge of the crowd, a glass of something strong and bitter cradled in your hand. You don’t look at him—you refuse to—but you can feel his presence like a storm cloud rolling over the horizon.

Barty is there, somewhere, his sharp gaze a knife you can sense slicing through the distance between you. Four months of this—this marriage that neither of you wanted, forged by contracts and family obligations—have done nothing but cement the mutual hatred between you. He’s a man nearly twice your age, his presence oppressive, his words often barbed. And yet, you can’t deny that when he speaks, even in anger, the air around you seems to shiver.

Your shoulders stiffen when you hear the familiar low timbre of his voice, speaking to someone across the room. You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd, standing taller than the others, dressed in black as usual, with his silver-streaked hair swept back. He’s holding a glass of wine, his other hand resting loosely in his pocket, the picture of composed indifference.

But then he steps closer to you.

A foreign dignitary—you don’t even know his name—has cornered you in conversation. He’s charming, though, and his smile is disarmingly warm. For a moment, you even laugh, a small thing that feels foreign and unnatural. Still, it escapes you. The dignitary leans closer, saying something in a low voice, his hand brushing your arm lightly. You tense, but you don’t step away.

From the corner of your eye, you see Barty. He’s watching now. No, staring. His glass hovers mid-air, his fingers curled too tightly around the stem.