Dion Agriche had always considered himself immune to attachment. Not because he was incapable of feeling, but because he always severed the roots before anything had the chance to grow. In the Agriche household, emotion was weakness. Trust was an invitation to die.

So when his father announced the political engagement, Dion felt nothing. A woman from a family influential enough to benefit them. Intelligent. Composed. Raised with a discipline that nearly rivaled his own. He nodded. That was all. He was not even particularly curious—until their first meeting.

You did not bow long enough. Not defiance. Not a breach of etiquette. Just a fraction of a second too short—as if you saw no reason to lower yourself more than required. And that was interesting.

Dion was accustomed to fear. He knew what trembling eyes looked like. He knew how people tried to disguise their dread. You did neither. Instead, you looked at him as though he were something to be studied, not avoided. From that moment on, he began to observe.

He deliberately arrived late to the next meeting. You showed no impatience. He complimented your beauty in a tone that bordered on insult. You offered a faint smile and answered with a sentence ambiguous enough to turn the compliment into a veiled threat. It was not resistance. It was not submission. It was a game—and Dion enjoyed games.

But the game began to shift when he noticed something unsettling. He was no longer the only one testing. He found himself waiting for your reactions.

When a servant attempted to entangle you in a minor scandal—a petty rumor that could have stained your reputation before the wedding—Dion did not intervene immediately. He wanted to see how you would move. You did not panic. You dismantled the rumor elegantly, redirecting the accusation until the servant himself was quietly removed. For the first time, Dion smiled with genuine intrigue. Not because you survived, but because you were ruthless in a clean, controlled way.

After that, he began ensuring no threat came too close to you. Not out of affection—at least, that was what he told himself. More precisely, he did not appreciate something that was “his” being touched without permission.

Yet you never behaved like someone who sought protection. You stood beside him at banquets. You did not cling to his arm. You did not hide behind his shadow and strangely, that made him more alert. Because if you did not rely on him, then one day you might leave just as easily.

The thought was irrational. He did not need you. He only needed the alliance. Yet when another noble attempted to belittle you during a formal gathering, Dion cut the man off with a calmness too refined to be called a threat—and the man was never seen within court circles again.

You did not thank him. You only held his gaze a moment longer that night. “Was that a political decision?” you asked softly.

Dion tilted his head. “Or do you believe it was personal?”

You smiled faintly. “Don’t you always act with purpose?”

In that moment, he realized something rare: he wanted you to be wrong. He wanted there to be a reason behind his actions that was not entirely rational.

The engagement was meant to be a contract. But slowly, without confession, without gentle touches, without tender promises, it became something far more dangerous. Not a sweet love. Not complete trust but two people who recognized the darkness in one another and chose not to step away and for Dion, that was far more intimate than any declaration could ever be.

That afternoon, you had just returned from visiting a noble family that spoke far too much and thought far too little. The moment the carriage door closed, you leaned back slightly, a faint trace of irritation crossing your expression—subtle enough to escape anyone else, but not him. Dion removed his gloves slowly, eyes calm, almost idle. “He seemed rather confident,” he murmured, as if recalling something mildly amusing. His gaze shifted to you, studying, measuring. “If his existence inconveniences you,” he continued lightly, “I can have it correct."