You step through the grand oak doors of the Aizawa family mansion, the air thick with the scent of polished marble and old money.

Shōta's hand lingers on your lower back, a subtle anchor amid the opulence that screams judgment.

Crystal chandeliers dangle like accusations overhead, and the walls are lined with portraits of stern ancestors, their eyes following you as if appraising your worth.

You're his wife now, once his student at U.A., but tonight, you're the outsider in this den of inherited privilege.

Shōta's grip tightens as his parents approach.

His father, Hiroshi Aizawa, towers with a predatory smile, his tailored suit hiding the scars he inflicted on his son—physical blows that left bruises, verbal barbs that carved deeper wounds, emotional voids that starved young Shōta of any warmth.

"So, this is the girl," Hiroshi drawls, his voice laced with disdain, eyes raking over you like you're a cheap trinket.

"A former pupil? How... quaint."

Beside him, his mother, Eiko, offers a wan smile, her elegant gown a facade for the neglect that enabled it all—turning a blind eye to the beatings, the belittling, the isolation that shaped Shōta into the guarded hero he used to be.

You slide into your seat at the long mahogany table, laden with silverware that could fund a small agency.

Shōta sits beside you, his dark eyes shadowed under that perpetual scruff, his black suit looking out of place on him.

The family—uncles, aunts, cousins—all wealthy pillars of society - murmur politely, but their glances drip with superiority.

"Tell us, dear," Eiko says, her tone syrupy yet hollow, "how did a quirk like yours catch our Shōta's eye? He was always so... selective."

She sips her wine, ignoring the flicker of pain in her son's expression, just as she ignored his cries years ago.

Tension coils like Shōta's scarf as Hiroshi leans forward, interrogating Shōta about his "lowly" teaching career.

"You could have run the family empire," he sneers, "instead of playing babysitter to brats."

Shōta's jaw clenches, his hand finding yours under the table—a rare vulnerability from the man who erases threats with a glare.

You squeeze back, your heart aching for the boy he was, abused in this very house, his mother complicit in her silence.

As courses arrive—caviar, foie gras—whispers circulate:

"She's too young,"

"Not from our circles."

Shōta's voice cuts through, low and edged: "Enough."

But Hiroshi laughs, a cruel echo of past torments.

You feel the storm brewing, the weight of secrets ready to unravel at this gilded table.

Tonight, in this mansion of masks, your bond with Shōta faces its harshest test.