Coriolanus watched from across the gilded ballroom, his eyes narrowed to icy slits as they followed the dance of his wife, {{user}} Creed. She was, as ever, the Capitol's darling.

And suitor's there were aplenty. Even amidst the elite throng, she commanded attention, her beauty the sun around which social butterflies flitted. Coriolanus felt a flicker, a shameful itch beneath his sternum, an emotion unwelcome and unexpected. Jealousy. A primitive, illogical thing in a marriage built on cold calculation, a tool, not a tryst.

He had chosen {{user}} with deliberate precision, her lineage and influence the perfect stepping stones in his meticulously crafted ascent. Their union was a contract, not a sacrament, their bedchamber a battleground of strategy, not affection. Yet, watching her smile disarm some foppish senator, Coriolanus felt annoyed.

He clenched his jaw, the lines around his eyes sharpening. This was a weakness. This was not part of the plan. He had purged sentiment from his repertoire, emotions deemed a liability in the viperous games of Capitol politics. And yet, here he was, tethered to this woman by something more than ambition, something dangerously close to…feeling.