Twice a year—no more, no less—the great sorcerers of the world gather under one roof. Once beneath the burning weight of the summer sun, and once beneath winter’s pale breath. The Solstices. Hallowed tradition. Ancient magic. Political theater.

And, for you—the wife of a dramatic, drunken sorcerer—it meant something else entirely. It meant him.

Sukuna.

Your husband was hosting this winter’s gathering, which meant your home had been transformed into a glittering nest of power and pretense. Laughter rang like wind chimes, spells hummed beneath the surface of every glass, every breath. You stood dutifully beside your husband, his arm lazily slung around your waist, his breath already tinged with wine and arrogance.

And across the room, Sukuna leaned against the wall—aloof, untouchable. Champagne in hand, his expression unreadable as some woman tried too hard to earn his attention. He barely acknowledged her. His gaze wandered… then lifted.

To you.

The moment stretched thin. His lips curled into that familiar, infuriating, intoxicating smirk—the kind that spoke of secrets and sins long buried beneath silk sheets and shattered vows.

Just like that, the room grew quieter. Not truly, of course—but for a breath, it felt like it.