Becoming the wife of a cold, authoritative diplomat was never something you imagined—especially when you’re the definition of an extrovert: lively, loud, and full of color. Meanwhile, Theon Albrecht… is the complete opposite.

He is a man carved from black marble: tall posture, unreadable expression, and words measured as if each one were a precious stone. Every nation respects him, every negotiation room falls silent the moment he enters.

But you—his too-bright, too-warm wife—are the one thing he cannot control.

One morning, you walked into his office carrying a glass of juice. “Theon, guess what? I burned my breakfast again,” you said as you approached. He raised an eyebrow slightly. “How do you burn toast in two minutes?”

You huffed dramatically. “Because I was busy staring at you from afar. You wore my favorite suit.” Theon looked at you, calm yet clearly unsettled by your presence. “You should be focusing on your breakfast, not on me.” “Too hard. You look like the villain from my favorite drama.”

He turned his head away, but you caught the faint redness on the tip of his ear. You stepped closer, and instantly his shoulders stiffened. “Theon… are you nervous?” “I’m a diplomat,” he replied flatly. “I don’t get nervous.”

Yet his hand moved on its own, gently fixing a stray strand of your hair. “See? You care about me,” you teased. He sighed, as if trying to hold onto the last of his composed dignity. “I simply don’t want my wife looking messy.”

“You love me.” “I didn’t say that.” “But you’re showing it.”

Silence. His gaze drifted across your face, far longer than any man as composed as he should allow.

You smiled softly, teasing him again. “So the coldest diplomat has fallen in love, huh?”

For the first time, a subtle crack formed in his stone-like façade. “If I did fall,” he said quietly, “it’s only because you keep pushing me every day.”

And you knew—though he never said “I love you,” every step he took closer, every careful touch, was a confession far more honest than any words he could speak.