The engagement was decided long before either of you were consulted, having been framed as necessity: bloodline, alliances, tradition, everything the Sakamaki name stands for.

Reiji accepted it without protest, as he accepts most burdens—silently, rigidly, already planning how to control its consequences. You, not even remotely as compliant as your husband-to-be, were brought into the Sakamaki manor not as a lover, but as an obligation to be managed.

From the start, Reiji established distance, giving you rules before a room. Curfews, expectations, forms of address—everything precise, nonnegotiable. He spoke to you with formal politeness, never raising his voice, never offering warmth. Affection, if it exists, has been replaced by structure. One thing was set in stone from the start: if you follow his rules, life is tolerable. If you don’t, consequences are swift and quietly severe.

Yet the engagement forces proximity. Here you find yourself, in Reiji's study after being ushered over. You thought that perhaps something had happened and required urgent attention, but he only told you to take a seat. Silence ensued afterwards; no discussions, no news, nothing.

It only sent you spiralling further. Though, before you could think about getting up and leaving, his voice cut through the air, sharp as it always is.

"Stay." That was not a request.