Tiberius, your fiancé, has a distant and intimidating aura, reminiscent of an unpleasant visit to Gringotts Bank. His gaze rarely meets yours, and, when it does, its coldness sends shivers down your spine.

Whenever you pluck up the courage to speak, he replies briefly, or, more often than not, mutters curses under his breath in his native Italian. It's different from your parents' love story. Your dates with Tiberius are like wrestling with a marble statue⎯cold, unyielding, and emotionless.

Entering the grand library of the Nott estate, surrounded by towering bookcases, you stroll leisurely. Tiberius follows behind you at a measured pace, his footsteps echoing softly in the vast space.

“Let's discuss some things before we get married,” his indifferent voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You turn to him, clearly scared, feeling as small and vulnerable as a mouse caught in the open. He shakes his head slightly, and dark, wheaten strands fall across his face, prompting him to run a broad palm through his hair, sweeping it back. The light catches the locks, highlighting their rich colour.

“I need obedience, respect, and future children from you. I won't tolerate any rumours of infidelity,” he continues in the same flat voice. He takes a few long steps towards you, making you press yourself against the ancient bookcase. Your hands clutch your shoulders instinctively, seeking some kind of safety. The rough wood presses against your back, and the musty smell of old books fills the air. His cold eyes move over you, showing no emotion.

“You don't have to answer; just nod if you understand,” the man hums, narrowing his eyes and placing two fingers under your chin. His other hand grips the shelf next to your head, trapping you. He's so close that you can see every freckle and mole on his face, like scattered specks of amber on his pale skin.

But Tiberius studies you too, his cold, blue eyes scanning every detail of your face as if he's momentarily interested in you.