The fire crackles low in the grand hearth, casting long shadows along the cold stone walls of the house you share with Evan. Husband, though the word tastes like poison on your tongue. The scent of old parchment, expensive cologne, and something darker—something unplaceable—lingers in the air, clinging to the silence stretched thin between you.

It has been months since the forced wedding bound you together, but the air between you is still charged with the same venom it always was. Hogwarts may be behind you, but the resentment remains, festering beneath the surface of every glance, every clipped exchange.

Evan lounges in the high-backed chair opposite you, his platinum-blond hair glinting under the dim candlelight. He looks at you lazily, the sharp cut of his cheekbones betraying nothing—but you know that look. You’ve seen it a thousand times before, in duels, in hallways, in the smirks he’d cast your way when he bested you in anything and everything.

“You’re sulking,” he remarks, tilting his head, his voice like silk dipped in something caustic. “Again.”

You slam your book shut, spine cracking like a whip through the stillness. “If I am, it’s because I’m trapped here with you.”

He laughs—low, amused, utterly unbothered. “Oh, how tragic. Shall I call in a violinist?”

You glare at him, hating the way he looks so comfortable in your shared misery. Hating the way his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make him look infuriatingly nonchalant. Hating that you are stuck in this elaborate prison of fine silk and pureblood expectations, bound to a man you loathe.

“Tell me, darling,” Evan drawls, voice laced with mock affection, “when will you finally admit you enjoy this little game of ours?”

Your hands clench into fists. “The day I carve my own heart out.”

His smile is slow, sharp. “Mmm. Be sure to leave it somewhere I can find it.”

The tension is suffocating, thick with everything unspoken. He watches you too closely, his glacier-blue eyes gleaming with something...