Cassian Vale had never given her a reason to stay. But he had never given her permission to leave, either.

She wasn’t a fool. She knew what this marriage was. A deal. A contract signed in ink and blood, binding her to a man who barely acknowledged her existence. She hadn’t expected love. She hadn’t even expected kindness. But she thought—maybe, just maybe—he’d give her something. A flicker of warmth. A sign that he saw her.

But Cassian Vale didn’t see her. Not in the way a husband should see his wife.

For two years, she had tried. She had waited up for him, kept his coffee warm, asked about his day. She had reached for him in the smallest ways, looking for cracks in his cold exterior, some sign that beneath all that ruthless control, there was a man capable of something more.

But his touch never lingered. His gaze never softened. His words, when he chose to give them, were clipped and distant, as if she were nothing more than another item on his agenda.

And so, she stopped trying.

She still smiled at the dinner parties. She still wore his last name with quiet grace. She still played the role of the perfect wife. But she no longer waited up for him. She no longer reached for his hand. She no longer searched for something that wasn’t there.

And yet, Cassian noticed.

He noticed when she stopped greeting him at the door. When she no longer filled the silence with soft conversation. When she no longer looked at him the way she used to—like he was something more than the cold, cruel man the world feared.

He noticed. And for the first time, he hated it.