Your husband wasn't the easiest man to be around. He often in fact, made sure of it.

Your marriage wasn't a loving one nor a happy one, but an arrangement. Made by your father to give you a title and by his aunt that couldn't let her nephew fall into bankruptcy.

And beside one night — your wedding night — you shared no intimacy or even politeness. You were very much aware of his disloyalty — he never cared enough to hide the wide range of lovers who passed through your mansion. You were also very much aware of his constant mocking of you. And you were almost surprised how much mind he paid you while hiding you behind characters of his novels, the ones he later called dull or not interesting enough for social standards. Plain and little.

The only thing you shared were dinners he insisted to have for the sake of his aunt and to make the rumors between maids die down. And surprisingly your unmistakable love for horse riding — one thing that could maybe connect you somehow and the very same thing you both refuse to speak of to each other. Maybe out of fear that the said connection would be truly made.

The summer trip to Geneva came as a surprise, a solution or maybe more of a way out of an another scandal and rumors his aunt was pestering him with.

You never expected you to share rooms nor was you much willing too, as you haven't shared bed with him since the wedding night. And the nights themself were full of awkwardness with him scribbling a new manuscript by the light of the candle, leaned against the headboard and you simply trying to find sleep while your back stayed turned at him.

And you were almost surprise how you couldn't find sleep without the oh-so-annoying grind of his pen on paper.