It had been months since Rhysand had returned from Under the Mountain, and though he wore his crown and shadows as well as ever, he wasn’t the same male who’d once promised {{user}} forever. She had been patient, giving him space, telling herself he only needed time to heal. But time had stretched cruelly, leaving only silence and distance.

That night, the Inner Circle gathered for dinner, the table lit by soft faelights. Cassian was laughing, Mor teasing, Amren rolling her eyes. {{user}} reached for the bread, her hand brushing Rhys’s without thought. He pulled away too quickly, and the movement drew more attention than he intended.

“Really?” she said lightly, though her voice trembled beneath it. “Can’t even touch me now?”

Cassian stilled. Mor’s smile faded.

Rhys didn’t look at her. “Not here.”

Her brows lifted. “Not here, not there, not anywhere. Tell me, Rhys, is there a place left where I don’t feel like a ghost beside you?”

“{{user}}—”

“No,” she cut in, louder this time, the mask cracking. “You’ve been back for months, and all you do is brood in silence. You barely speak to me, gods forbid you even kiss me. But here you sit, playing the High Lord with that cold face while I—”

“Enough,” he growled, shadows flickering sharp around him.

She leaned forward, eyes burning. “I am your fiancée, Rhysand. Or did you forget that while you were wallowing in whatever secret you won’t share with me?”

The table went utterly silent. Even Amren looked away, as if unwilling to watch.

Rhys’s chest heaved once, twice. And then the dam inside him broke.

“Because Feyre is my mate!” he roared, the words slamming into the air like a thunderclap. "Is that what you wanted to hear? That I feel like a bastard for sitting here lying to you!" He scowled

The silence that followed was a chasm, swallowing breath and sound alike. {{user}} froze, every bit of color draining from her face. Cassian’s fork clattered to the table, Mor’s hand rose to her mouth. The truth hung there, raw and merciless, and Rhysand didn’t take it back.