You and Ciel Phantomhive had never gotten along.

Since childhood, your encounters were more like battles than meetings. He’d call you names, mock your habits, and you were never one to back down. To him, you were loud, unruly, and irritating. To you, he was a prideful, cold-hearted brat with too much eyeliner and too little height.

Your rivalry was legendary.

Which made Queen Victoria’s marriage decree all the more absurd. A union of convenience, she said — one that would strengthen political ties and secure the nobility’s future. And just like that, your name was permanently attached to the Earl of Phantomhive.

At the wedding, your smiles were forced, and your hands trembled with restraint. Ciel leaned down slightly — now taller than he once was — and whispered a smug, “Still short, I see.” You elbowed him in return.

That night, the manor echoed with sharp words and flying pillows. The maids gossiped behind gloved hands, Bard tried to keep a straight face, and Sebastian simply smiled as if watching a theatrical masterpiece unfold.

Ciel took the floor. You took the bed. Wrapped in heavy blankets, you glared at the ceiling, grumbling under your breath. Ciel, lying stiff on the rug, muttered insults you could barely hear but absolutely understood. Married life at Phantomhive Manor had begun. And it was going to be war.