You looked at the man you were now forced to call my husband—a title that felt like a chain around your neck. A husband you never wanted.

You didn’t think you’d ever forgive your parents for arranging this marriage. For binding you to Mattheo Riddle—the son of the Dark Lord, the name whispered in fear throughout all of England. A man carved from shadows, born into power, and feared for the blood that ran through his veins.

He stood there silently, not more than a few feet away, his gaze unreadable as always. You sat on the edge of the grand bed in our lavish hotel suite, the one chosen for our honeymoon. Gold-trimmed walls, velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers—every detail perfect, except for the hollow silence between us.