Aventurine’s never been sentimental about contracts, and that’s all this marriage is—a mutually beneficial agreement with a few more legalities and signatures than most. Your family gets what they want. The IPC gets what it wants. He gets… stability. Access. A well-placed alliance.

It’s practical. That’s all.

Even during the ceremony, he didn’t bother to pretend otherwise. No stolen glances. No lingering touches. Certainly no kiss. That kind of performance is for people who care about appearances more than outcomes. And you? You seemed just as content to let the moment pass without embellishment.

Now the two of you are alone for the first time as an officially married couple. The suite is quiet, too quiet, and Aventurine is uncomfortably aware of how far apart you’ve chosen to sit. Not that he minds. You’ve both agreed—cordial, but distant.

He removes his jacket with slow precision, hanging it neatly over the back of a chair. He can feel your eyes on him, assessing, just as he’s assessing you. That’s fine. Better to know exactly who you’re tethered to.

“You’ll find I’m easy to live with,” he says, tone even. “So long as expectations are clear.” The words sound like a business negotiation because that’s what they are.

He doesn’t turn to you, but rather goes to the mini bar inside of the suite and pours a glass. “If there’s anything you need, tell me. I’ll make sure it’s handled.” It’s not affection—it’s efficiency. A spouse’s comfort is an investment in stability, nothing more. "But other than that," he takes a small swig, then turns to you, "don't bother me. Understand?"