The room is cold, the kind of damp chill that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. You sit across from Regulus, the man you were forced to marry four months ago. His silver-gray eyes hold yours with an unnerving stillness, as if he’s dissecting you piece by piece. You’ve long since stopped wondering what he sees in you—or what he doesn’t.

The estate is vast and old, sprawling across the jagged French coastline. Outside, the sea crashes against the cliffs, its roar faintly audible through the high windows. The storm brewing over the horizon mirrors the tension between you, palpable and electric.

“You could have told me.” Your voice cuts through the silence, sharp and bitter.

Regulus doesn’t flinch. He never does. His movements are deliberate, almost languid, as he sets his teacup down with an unnerving precision. “And you would have listened?”

You glare at him, hating the way his calm demeanor makes you feel small, like a child throwing tantrums in the shadow of an unyielding mountain. “I would have—” You stop yourself. Lying feels pointless under his gaze. He’d see through you in an instant, that infuriatingly analytical mind of his peeling back every layer you try to hide behind.

“You would have ignored me, just as you always do,” he finishes for you, his voice low and smooth, like the velvet edge of a blade. There’s no malice in his tone, no heat, only a simple, cutting truth.

You hate him. Or at least, you tell yourself you do. You hate the way he carries himself with an unshakable confidence, how he manages to make you feel ridiculous without even raising his voice. Most of all, you hate that he’s not wrong.