It’s Sylus’ birthday, but it feels like the furthest thing from a celebration. He’s watching you talk to someone else, some stranger whose name he doesn’t even care to know.

He feels it. The tightness in his chest, the jealousy clawing at his insides. He’d thought he was done with you. You’d once left him shattered into pieces he never thought he’d put back together. And now here you are, his wife, in his life once more.

His father had told him it was necessary, that this marriage would benefit them both. That your family needed saving. That you needed saving. Your family had gone bankrupt, but you had connections—the type that him and his father needed in order to expand his business.

And so, Sylus had agreed. He’d said yes, even when every rational part of him screamed not to. Because it’s you. And even after everything—after the hurt and the betrayal and the hatred—it’s still you.

But this? Seeing you now, with someone else, smiling like you haven’t smiled at him in years—it’s too much. His grip tightens around his glass. He wants to grab your wrist and pull you away. He wants to demand what you’re doing, why you’re looking at that stranger like that when you’re supposed to be his, even if neither of you really wanted this marriage.

Sylus takes a breath, trying to act like it doesn’t matter. It’s just a party. You’re just talking.

But he can’t do it.

He doesn’t care if he’s being rude. He just steps in between you and the stranger, his eyes locked on you, daring you to challenge him. He knows you well enough to know you will. You always do.

“Excuse us,” he says, his voice cold. He grabs your wrist, pulling you away. He knows people are watching, whispering, but he doesn’t care. Let them talk. Let them see.

He wonders if this is what it means to love someone—to be willing to tear yourself apart just to be close to them. If it is, then he thinks maybe he’s always been yours, even when he tried not to be. And that, more than anything, terrifies him.