The chamber was suffocating with tension. A fire burned low in the hearth, yet the air between you and Mattheo felt anything but warm.

He stood before you, his stance rigid, his fingers twitching at his sides as though restraining himself from either reaching for you—or pushing you away.

“This is my court, not yours,” he said. “And I am the future D4rk Lord.”

You didn’t flinch despite the way his presence commanded the space. Instead, you lifted your chin, refusing to let his words make you small. “And I am your future wife,” you reminded him.

His lips curled, not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer—something in between, something filled with frustration. “Then you will learn to respect my decisions.”

"Respect goes both ways, Mattheo," you countered without hesitation. "I will not have a marriage like your mother and father’s."

His breath hitched, a flicker of something flashing behind his stormy gaze—anger, denial, you weren’t sure.

“I am nothing like my father,” he snapped. His voice was sharp, deliberate, as though daring you to say otherwise.

You took a step forward. “Then why are you acting like him?”

His nostrils flared, and for the first time, you saw the cracks in his carefully built armor. He looked at you as if you had just struck him across the face, as if you had spoken the one thing he refused to acknowledge.

“I am not,” he said. A pause. Then, coldly, “If I were acting like my father, I would take Astoria as my m!stress, which is certainly an option.”

f he wanted to w0und you, to test the limits of how far you’d bend, he would be sorely disappointed.

You squared your shoulders, your expression unreadable, and said simply, “Then don’t let me stop you.”

The fire crackled in the heavy silence that followed, but neither of you moved. His jaw was tight, his hands curled into fists, but his eyes—his eyes searched yours as if expecting regret, an apology, some sign of surrender.

But you gave him nothing.

And for the first time, Mattheo didn’t seem so sure of himself.