The air in the honeymoon suite was thick with unspoken words and simmering tension, a stark contrast to the cheerful façade they had maintained all day. The room was lavishly decorated, a testament to their families' desire for a picture-perfect union. Yet, beneath the surface, it was anything but.

Barty leaned against the ornate bedpost, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the wood. His usual bravado was turned up to eleven, masking the unease he felt being so close to you. "Well, Mrs. Crouch, this is cozy, isn’t it?" he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He shot you a lopsided grin, but it didn't reach his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice. "Don't flatter yourself, Barty. It's just a room." You busied yourself with removing the many pins and combs from your hair, focusing intently on anything but him.

"Oh, come on, love," he replied, pushing off the bedpost and strolling over to where you stood. "We're supposed to be madly in love, remember? At least try to look like you're not plotting my murder."