The manor was silent save for the faint crackle of the fire, a silence broken only when the two of you couldn’t avoid one another any longer. Four months into this reluctant union, the air still buzzed with unspoken frustrations and words left unsaid. Regulus, your husband by arrangement and enemy by design, sat across the room, a glass of wine balanced effortlessly between his long fingers.

You hated him.

Not in the childish, fleeting way you’d once imagined hating someone, but in the slow-burning way that simmered under your skin, igniting every time he entered a room. His poise, his biting remarks, the way he always seemed two steps ahead—it all grated on you, the arrogance woven into every line of his sharply tailored existence.

And yet… you couldn’t ignore the magnetic pull he had on everyone, yourself reluctantly included.

Tonight was no different.

The gathering was one of those suffocating aristocratic soirées he seemed to endure with unnerving grace. You’d lingered in the shadows, pretending not to care as someone—a witch far too beautiful and far too bold—slipped into conversation with him. Her laughter rang out, light and flirtatious, and though you weren’t watching, you could feel the subtle shift in the air. Regulus’ low, measured voice carried just enough to be maddening.

But you refused to look.

"Does it bother you?"

His voice was like silk, brushing against your ears before you realized he had approached. He stood beside you now, wine glass still in hand, his expression unreadable. His silver-gray eyes met yours, sharp and unwavering, as though he already knew the answer to his question.