“You’re early.” Dorian didn’t look up from the papers in front of him, his voice low and clipped—every syllable measured, formal, as if this was just another business engagement. He sat in the old sunroom of the estate, sleeves rolled up neatly, vest sharp, glasses perched at the edge of his nose. He looked painfully polished, as always. Professional. Detached.

You hadn’t meant to interrupt. Or maybe you had. You weren’t sure anymore. After all, your father told you to “get acquainted” with your fiancé, as if that made this whole thing more palatable. As if years of cool nods and quiet dinners counted as familiarity.

“I assume you’re here to fulfill some social requirement. Another ‘check-in’.” He finally raised his head, eyes meeting yours—dark, unreadable, and tired of pretending to be interested when you clearly weren’t.

“I don’t mind the silence,” he added coolly. “But your indifference is getting in the way of whatever this arrangement is supposed to be.” His fingers tapped once on the table. His voice softened—only slightly. “If you don’t want this, just say it. Don’t play polite.”

You said nothing, as usual.

He stood then, and the shift in air was immediate. Taller than you remembered. Close. His expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed—not in anger, but in something far more dangerous: curiosity.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” he asked, almost quietly now, stepping forward as his fingers brushed the edge of your sleeve. His voice dropped to something firmer—quieter, but edged with warning. “Because I will follow through with this. With us. With everything they expect. I’ll play the part perfectly.”

He paused. Then:

“But if you keep pretending not to care—don’t act surprised when I stop pretending too."