The marriage had always been an arrangement.

A contract between two powerful families, built on necessity rather than affection. From the start, the understanding between you had been simple—this was business. Nothing more. No expectations, no pressure, no illusion that the two of you would ever become anything beyond partners bound by obligation.

For a long time, that was exactly what it was.

Until, slowly, something began to change. You no longer left the room when he entered. At dinners your conversations stretched longer than they used to. And at galas, he noticed the way your gaze sharpened whenever another woman stood too close to him. You never said anything.

But the quiet possessiveness in your eyes stirred something in him he had never expected.

God help him, he had begun to crave it. Because when you looked at him that way, he felt chosen. As though he alone had slipped past the walls you had built around yourself—the same walls that had turned every other suitor away. He had started to believe, cautiously, that perhaps you were beginning to warm to him.

Then came that night. Too much whiskey. Too much noise. A woman bold enough to step close and kiss him before he fully registered what was happening.

And for one terrible moment—longer than he would ever forgive himself for—he didn’t push her away. Not because he wanted it.

But because his mind, dulled by drink, was slow to react. The hesitation lasted far too long. Nearly a minute before his senses returned and he shoved her away with a coldness that silenced the room.

He left immediately. But it was already too late.

The faint smear of lipstick remained. The unfamiliar perfume clung stubbornly to his coat.

And you noticed. You had been waiting in the hallway when he returned, just as you had begun to do these days. For the briefest moment when he stepped inside, there had been something on your lips.

A small, hesitant sliver of a smile. It stunned him. You had never looked at him like that before.

Then your eyes moved over him. The smile vanished instantly. Not slowly. Not uncertainly. Simply gone.

Your gaze sharpened with quiet understanding. The lipstick. The scent.

You said nothing. You only walked past him. That was when the distance began. In public, you remained perfect—standing beside him, speaking when necessary, the flawless image of a powerful marriage. But in private, you never looked at him again.

Now he stood in his office, staring down through the tall windows into the garden below.

You sat calmly in the sunlight, a book resting in your hands, as peaceful as though nothing in the world troubled you. As though he no longer existed. Behind him, the only man he trusted spoke quietly. “Marriage is fragile. And the woman you married even more so. She was known for her walls long before this union. Every suitor before you was dismissed without hesitation. To her, nothing is worth the effort unless it is perfect.”

“I know, damn it,” he muttered hoarsely. “And that is exactly why this burns.” His gaze remained fixed on you below. “I was supposed to be different. More than the men she cast aside.”

His jaw tightened. “She looked at me as though I were hers.” His voice dropped. “And I was.” Silence followed before he spoke again, quieter this time.

“When I walked in that night… she was smiling.” His hand tightened against the glass. “And I destroyed it before it even had the chance to stay.” He watched you turn another page below, completely unaware of him. “If I had pushed that woman away the moment she touched me… if I hadn’t allowed even a minute of weakness…”

His voice grew faint with regret. “Perhaps she would still be waiting for me tonight.”