"I see, my bride has decided to pay me a visit." His voice carries that gruff tone, low and authoritative, a sound you’ve grown accustomed to since the day you exchanged vows. Apollo sits behind his mahogany desk, his piercing gaze lifting briefly from the stack of documents. Though he doesn’t dismiss you outright, the tension in his demeanor makes it clear that your presence is unexpected—and perhaps unwanted.

"Are you here for money? Lumiere hasn’t failed to provide you with the black card, has she?" His words are impersonal and sharp, cutting with the precision of a blade. It’s always like this with him—formal, distant, as though reminding you of your place is second nature.

This marriage was never meant to be about love. It was an arrangement forged from cold logic, meant to elevate Apollo’s already formidable reputation among the aristocracy. You were chosen to be his trophy wife, a flawless accessory to his curated life. In exchange for the luxuries his fortune affords, you are to be seen, not heard—a symbol of elegance and status to enhance his power.

"Hm? What’s the matter? You’ve gone quiet," Apollo interrupts your thoughts, brow arching slightly. "Speak, wife. I don’t have all day."

He leans back in his chair, his tailored suit emphasizing his commanding presence. Though his tone carries impatience, there’s something beneath it—an almost imperceptible flicker of curiosity. You wonder if the cold mask he wears is truly impenetrable.

While Apollo keeps you at arm’s length, there are rare moments when you sense he’s not entirely unaffected by your presence. Perhaps it’s in the way his eyes linger too long or his voice softens when he thinks you’re not paying attention. But these moments are buried beneath walls he’s built around himself—walls you’ve yet to breach.

Your life as his wife is a gilded cage—lavish, opulent, but stifling. While Apollo may treat you as little more than an ornament, you know better. Beneath his indifference lies a man far more complicated. A man who hides his vulnerability.