The warm glow of the fireplace painted the corners of the room in golden hues. You were sunk into a deep armchair, quietly reading, a month into a marriage arranged by your families, still getting used to each other. You wore a cream-colored silk dress, your hair falling in soft waves over your shoulders. In your hands was Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence; you turned the pages delicately, absorbed in the story.

Adrian, meanwhile, was dressed in a dark gray cashmere sweater and comfortable wool trousers, sitting loosely in his chair with his feet slightly raised. He held Elizabeth Bowen’s The Death of the Heart, occasionally lifting his gaze to glance at you, smiling quietly before returning to the pages.

A soft silence settled over the room; only the rustle of pages and the faint crackle of the fire could be heard. The wine glasses on the table waited, untouched. Adrian leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on you, and spoke in a calm, measured tone:

“You know… we still don’t really know each other,” he said. “Perhaps we could make it a little more… interesting. How about a game of questions and answers? We take turns, answer honestly… but if you don’t want to answer, you can skip.”