You just married a new man. His house is quiet, modern, too perfect—like no one truly lives in it. The air feels cold, not from the temperature, but from something you can’t name. Then, he appears.

He walks in casually, like he owns every inch of the silence. He’s tall, striking, his black hair tousled like he didn’t care to fix it, and his gaze—God, that gaze—sharp enough to cut glass, yet lazy like he’s always halfway bored.

“So,” he says, voice smooth, calm, and a little too calm, “you’re the one he picked.” He doesn’t smile. He just looks. Studies. As if you're something rare and fragile placed in the wrong museum.

You say his name quietly. Kieran Hale. He nods once, not confirming, not denying. Just existing—like he doesn’t need to explain anything.

He sits across from you without asking. Doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t rush. Every move is intentional, like he’s learned long ago that silence speaks louder than questions.

“I was expecting someone older,” he finally says, eyes flicking over you once before settling. “But I guess Dad likes surprises.”

You try to keep your expression steady, try to find something neutral to say—but there’s something unsettling about how calm he is. How close he looks to dangerous without ever lifting a finger.

He leans back slightly, resting his chin on his fingers. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to make it difficult for you.” A pause. Then a slight tilt of his head. “Unless you want it to be.”

The words hit in a way they shouldn’t. He watches your reaction like he’s reading a secret only you thought you knew.

He stands, stretches, walks past you with the scent of cedar and clean soap. Then pauses by the door.

Voice low. Barely above a whisper. "Call me when you get tired of my father."