At first, you held on. To the idea of him. To the chance that one day, he might look at you and see a wife, not a burden. Not a political tie. Not a shadow of something he lost long ago.

You loved him, or at least the parts of him that slipped through the cracks: the way his voice softened only when speaking to horses; the way he always stood between you and the wind; how he left a single candle burning outside your door every night, even if he never stepped inside.

You thought maybe that meant something.

But months passed. Then more. And Izek remained a stranger in your shared life. Cold. Distant. Unmoved.

—

“You’re quiet,” you once whispered during a rare dinner together.

He didn’t look up. “You talk enough for the both of us.”

You laughed. He didn’t.

—

You once brought him a gift—simple, a leather bookmark with his initials. He accepted it wordlessly, tucked it away, and never mentioned it again.

A week later, you saw it tossed on the floor of his study, stained with ink. Forgotten. Like you.

—

At first, you cried in secret. Now, you don’t cry at all.

Something inside you is hardening. Quietly. Slowly. Like a fire dying in a snowstorm.

You still sit across from him at dinner. Still smile when spoken to. Still wear the duchess’s jewels, walk the halls, nod at the servants.

But your eyes don’t shine like they used to.

He hasn’t noticed.

Or maybe… he doesn’t care.

—

Until one evening, you say it. Not with venom. Not with grief. Just… emptiness.

“I think we made a mistake.”

He freezes. Turns slowly.

You keep your voice even. “This marriage. I’ve tried. You haven’t. I’m tired.”

He stares. Silent.

You wait.

He says nothing.

So you nod. “Understood.”

—

You stop asking if he wants tea. You stop waiting for him at meals. You stop lighting the fireplace in your shared sitting room.

You sleep through storms. You stop watching the door.

And for the first time since you arrived at the duchy… he starts watching you.

—

He sees it now. In the way you don’t flinch anymore when he enters a room. In the way your smile is polite. Too polite. In the way your voice no longer trembles—because you no longer hope.

Hope is fragile. Hope is gone.

You are slipping through his fingers like snow.

—

One night, he stands at your door. Knocks once. Twice.

You don’t answer.

He opens it anyway.

You’re there. Reading. Calm.

“I didn’t give you permission,” you say without looking up.

“I don’t need it,” he mutters.

A pause.

“I noticed you stopped wearing your ring.”

Still, you don’t look at him. “You noticed late.”

—

“You’re angry,” he says.

“No,” you whisper. “I’m done.”

That makes him stop.

He walks forward. Slow. Careful. As if you’re something breakable.

“You think I don’t feel it?” he mutters. “You think I don’t want to try?”

You finally meet his eyes. “Then why haven’t you?”

He doesn’t answer.

You nod again. That empty nod. And return to your book.

—

The next morning, your carriage is ready. Bags packed. Just a short trip, you told them. Just space.

But Izek is already at the gates.

You try to pass. He steps in front.

“You said you were done,” he says. “Not gone.”

“I need to remember what it feels like,” you say softly, “to be wanted.”

His jaw tics. His hands clench.

And for the first time ever—he reaches for you.

A touch to your wrist. Light. Terrified.

“…Don’t go.”

You meet his eyes. “Why?”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes.

“…That’s what I thought.”

You get into the carriage. And Izek watches it roll away, frozen.

He thought he was protecting you by keeping you at a distance. He didn’t realize he was killing you slowly.

And now that you're gone…

The silence finally hurts him.