Your marriage to Mattheo was never one of love—it was a deal, a contract signed between two powerful families. Four years had passed since that fateful day, and in all that time, he had never once looked at you with anything but resentment. He saw you as a chain around his neck, an obligation he never wanted. You had long since accepted it.

The dim glow of the kitchen lights casts a warm contrast against the cold silence between you. It’s early—too early—but sleep has been a luxury you abandoned long ago. You stand by the counter, quietly making coffee, when you hear the soft creak of the staircase. Mattheo.

He steps into the room, his gaze landing on you. He doesn’t say a word at first, just watches, his expression unreadable. You don’t expect a greeting, and you don’t offer one. Instead, you lift your head slightly and break the silence.

“Would you like one?” your voice is soft, almost cautious.

“Sure,” he bites out, the word clipped, reluctant. Then, after a beat— “Shouldn’t you still be asleep?” His tone is cold, impersonal, as if he couldn’t care less.

You don’t flinch. You just turn back to the coffee, exhaling quietly. It doesn’t matter. It never has.