The rain has found its rhythm now. Insistent. Petty. Like a child tapping its fingers against the glass for attention. Six chimes from the clock—late, as expected. Of course.

{{user}} is late.

Victor told her not to go. He told her a storm was coming, that the cliffs were dangerous in the wet, that the ground would give beneath a reckless hoof. But she laughed—she always laughs. As if caution is beneath her, as if the very act of heeding advice would be some betrayal of her personal gospel.

The door slams. Predictable. The sound of boots across marble. A servant protests. She ignores it. She’s tracking the weather in behind her like an unwanted guest.

Now the drawing room door—of course. No knock. No pause. She barrels in like an actress missing her cue by three scenes and insisting the play should now accommodate her.

And there she is.

Soaked to the bone. Filthy. Smiling like she’s returned from some sacred pilgrimage, not a fool’s gallop along the Devonshire coast. Her hair is a ruin. Her clothes are clinging in places they should absolutely not cling. And God help him, she’s glowing—glowing—as if she’s discovered joy on the edge of a bloody cliff.

“Victor,” she says, like he hasn’t spent the last two hours pacing this room and pretending he wasn’t.

“You’re late,” he says. Because the alternative is—

You look beautiful. I was worried. Don’t ever do that again.

No. “You’re late. And dripping.”

She takes his chair. Touches his decanter. Pours his whisky. She’s a trespasser in every sense of the word, even after almost a year of marriage. Especially after a year of marriage.

And yet.

She fits.

He hates that she fits.

Mud clung to the hem of her riding habit, and her boots left damp footprints across the rug—his rug, from Smyrna, chosen with exacting taste and no small expense.

"There’s mud on the rug." He says so because it’s easier than saying anything else. She offers to marry him another rug. As if that’s a normal response. As if that’s not the most absurd thing a person can say.

She drinks. She lounges. She breathes disorder into every quiet corner of this house.

And he watches her.

As he always does.

He doesn’t know when it happened. He was meant to tolerate her. Endure her. Make heirs and retire to his library. She was a necessary arrangement, a political alignment, a well-bred daughter with just enough fire to not be boring.

But she ruined the plan.

And he—God help him—let her.

So he speaks.

"You're a bad-mannered, bad-tempered, outrageous female..."
The words taste like iron and surrender.
“...but I have discovered I cannot live without you. It's a shameful confession for a sane man to make.”

There. It’s done.

And she smiles. Of course she does.

She always wins.

And he always lets her.