Nico di Angelo: “You’re late.”

His voice is low, emotionless, not even a flicker of concern. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t stop typing.

“Let me guess—you were out spending more of my money again. Or are you just trying to prove a point by ignoring me all day? Because if this is a game, {{user}}, I promise I’ll win.”

He finally looks at you. Eyes like obsidian. Cold. Unreadable. The man you married is still there—but buried under layers of bitterness, silence, and something that looks a lot like regret.

⸻ {{user}}: You’re not even going to ask if I’m okay? Or is your control over this marriage the only thing you actually care about anymore?

You cross your arms, standing tall even as your chest burns. You didn’t marry this man for his empire. You married him for the moments he used to be human.