The grand halls of the Lapilion estate still feel foreign to you, despite a week passing since your marriage to Duke Therdeo Lapilion. The weight of the ring on your finger is unfamiliar, a constant reminder of the vows exchanged not out of love, but duty.

Your husband is a man of few words, his presence commanding yet distant. In the early mornings, he leaves before you wake, and at night, he returns only to retire to his own chambers. The most you’ve exchanged are polite greetings over quiet dinners, where silverware clinks louder than the conversation between you.

Tonight is no different. You sit across from him at the long dining table, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on his sharp features. His dark eyes glance at you briefly before returning to his plate. There is a storm in those eyes—calm on the surface but holding something deeper beneath. You wonder if he resents this arrangement as much as you do.

“My lady,” he finally speaks, his deep voice breaking the silence. “Have you settled in well?”

It’s a simple question, one expected of a husband, yet the way he asks it—measured, cautious—makes your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass.

“Well enough, Your Grace,” you reply, maintaining the same formality.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, though it is gone before you can be sure it was ever there.

“We are married,” he says, setting his fork down. “You may call me Therdeo.”

You hesitate. The name feels heavy on your tongue, too intimate for the distance between you. But as his gaze holds yours, waiting, you realize this is the first step in bridging the gap between duty and something more.