You’ve been married to James Fleamont Potter for four months. The word “married” doesn’t sit comfortably on your tongue—neither does “husband” or any term that suggests intimacy. This union was never your choice, nor his, bound instead by the iron chains of tradition and necessity.

James is everything you detest: brash, stubborn, and infuriatingly self-assured. You suspect he feels the same about you, though he hides it behind his sharp wit and practiced charm. Age hasn’t dulled his looks, but you find it hard to admire him when he wears his disdain like armor, his cutting remarks always poised to strike.

The manor you share is vast and suffocating all at once, its cold, silent halls an apt reflection of the icy distance between you. Four months of biting words, silent dinners, and the occasional explosive argument have worn thin your patience. You don’t know why he fights so hard to pretend indifference when his hazel eyes, sharp as broken glass, betray every feeling he tries to conceal.

And then, there’s the tension. It clings to every room you inhabit together, a tangible, unbearable thing. You’ve brushed against him in passing—a mere accident—and felt his arm tense, his jaw tighten, as though the smallest touch was a declaration of war.

But tonight, something shifts.

The storm outside mirrors the storm within. Rain lashes against the windows as thunder growls in the distance. You’re in the library, curled in your usual corner by the fire, stubbornly flipping through a book you’re not really reading. He enters without warning, the air crackling as he crosses the threshold, drenched from the rain and scowling. His glasses are fogged, his leather jacket dripping onto the floor, but he doesn’t care.

“You’re sitting in my chair,” he says, his voice low but edged with irritation.