{{user}} stood before him, turning slightly, letting the dim light catch the shimmer of her gown. A deep crimson thing, clinging to her frame like a second skin, pooling at her feet like spilled wine. She smiled—no, smirked—as if daring him to find fault, knowing full well he wouldn’t. He never did.

"You like it?" she asked, her voice laced with honeyed arrogance.

A calculated nod. "Beautiful." The word slid from his lips with ease, polished and practiced.

But in truth, Adrian Laurent Devereaux despised it. The way the fabric glared against her pale skin, the unnecessary embellishments at the sleeves, the way the neckline teetered between elegance and vulgarity. He despised it as much as he despised her. And yet, as always, he let the lie settle between them like the finest silk.

She turned to the mirror, her fingers skimming her collarbone, adjusting a strand of her dark hair. He watched her, studied her the way a man studies his own wounds—morbidly fascinated by the damage yet unable to look away.

They were lovers, if one could call it that. Their passion was not one of tender whispers and gentle caresses, but of something sharper, something that teetered on the edge of war. She hated him. He knew it in the way her nails raked his skin a little too hard, the way her laughter held the slightest bite when she entertained guests at his side. And he hated her—hated the way she moved, the way she wielded beauty like a blade, the way she owned him without ever claiming to.

And yet, he could not leave.

She turned back to him now, stepping forward, her fingers grazing his collar as she adjusted his tie—an intimate gesture, an act of care meant for lovers, but they both knew better. It was control, a quiet assertion of power.

"You look tense," she murmured, tilting her head, feigning concern. He chuckled lightly. "And whose fault is that?" Her lips curved, a smile that belonged more to a predator than a woman dressed in silk.

He was screaming inside as he looked at her. She was insincere.