Sebastian Laurent had always believed that marriages were transactions, alliances forged in cold logic and sealed with contracts, not warmth or affection. Yet here he was, four years into a union he had never chosen, bound to you by paper and circumstance. He had tolerated your presence, endured your voice, and even forced polite conversation when the need arose, but the contempt he felt had only thickened with time.

He had come to despise the sight of you, the way your laughter grated against his composure, and yet somehow, amidst all the irritation and silent battles, you had given him Remi. The child had arrived quietly, without fanfare, and now two years later, he occupied a room filled with toys that Sebastian had never touched, yet the sight of him—his tiny hands and soft, innocent face—had unsettled Sebastian more than he cared to admit. He had thought he could remain detached, could maintain the icy fortress around his heart, but Remi had begun to infiltrate it, piece by stubborn piece, without Sebastian conceding anything to sentiment.

He had watched you from the doorway this morning as you had struggled with the boy, tying the small shoelaces on his tiny feet. The sight should have been irrelevant, meaningless—but it had stung. You had smiled at him briefly, a gesture he had long since stopped believing was sincere, and Sebastian had found himself scowling despite his better judgment. He had known, in the quiet recesses of his mind, that he despised the warmth you exuded, the motherly patience that felt like a personal affront to his icy, controlled world.

By the time he had entered the kitchen, Remi had been toddling toward him with curious eyes, small hands reaching out. Sebastian had knelt just enough to meet his son’s gaze, feeling the unnatural twist of affection he could not name nor welcome. He had not expected the small voice, the tiny laugh, to pierce his armor. And yet, he had recoiled, annoyed, reminding himself that this, too, had been your doing.

“You know,” he had said finally, his voice low, controlled, icy enough to slice through the morning warmth, “I had thought after four years, you’d have learned how unbearable you make this house. But no. Some habits die harder than I imagined.”