The woman who greets you in the rehearsal hall moves like her bones are made of marble and her expectations made of steel. Her name is Lady Magda Sorell, and she's the kind of relic the nobility preserve—not out of sentiment, but fear. Her gray hair is coiled into a tight bun, her cane sharper than some blades you've carried, and her eyes scan you like she's already disappointed.
"You must be Lord and Lady Marchand," she says, pronouncing the title as if it's an insult. "Your reputations precede you. Unfortunately, your posture does not."
You and Levi stand side by side beneath her scrutiny, the tension between you palpable. It's not the easy kind of tension, the kind born from dislike. It's worse—coiled, unresolved, laced with unspoken thought. She walks a slow, tight circle around you both. The cane taps the floor with each step.
"Newly married. Highborn. Private ceremony. Unconventional, but romantic. Now you're returning to Mitras to restore your family's standing with grace, charm, and utter devotion."
She stops behind Levi. Raps the cane against the back of his arm. "Uncross your arms."
He does it, jaw twitching.
Magda steps forward and gestures. "Touch her."
Levi's fingers twitch before he offers his hand. You take it without hesitation, slipping your fingers into his like you've done it a hundred times. You feel the resistance in him. The precision. The reluctance dressed up as control.
"Closer," she snaps.
You step in. His hand presses lightly to the small of your back, and it feels like standing on a wire.
"Hold her like you mean it. You are not leading her to a gallows."
"I'm trying not to treat her like a mission," Levi mutters.
You glance sideways at him. "You're failing."
His hand doesn't tighten, but it doesn't loosen either.
Magda ignores the exchange. "Walk."
You begin the slow glide across the length of the room. Her voice follows your steps.
"Each movement tells a story. How you touch tells us if you trust. How you walk tells us if you lead or follow. Your hands—what do they say?"
"They say we'd rather be anywhere else," you mutter.
Levi's voice is low. "Then stop talking and follow."
You almost smile.
She corrects your posture mercilessly. You're too sharp. He's too stiff. Your hands are too formal. His eye contact is nonexistent.
At one point, she tells Levi to imagine he missed you after three days apart. That you're reuniting at a garden party, and everyone is watching.
You turn toward him. "My love," you say smoothly, letting your voice settle low and fond. "I missed you."
Levi doesn't blink. "You look well, Elowyn."
"You sound thrilled."
He lifts an eyebrow—barely.
You let your hand graze down his chest, just enough to let the pressure of your palm linger.
His expression doesn't change.
But he doesn't pull away either.
Magda says nothing. Just nods once. "Again."
—
Later, the phonograph crackles to life in the quiet of the side hall they've given you for rehearsal. Magda is gone—for tea or possibly to scream into a velvet cushion.
You and Levi remain.
The music swells—something slow and deliberate, more emotion than movement. You step into position, and Levi places a hand carefully at your waist. The contact is precise. Professional. Distant.
"Relax," you say.
"I am relaxed."
"You're standing like I might stab you."
He mutters, "You might."
Still, he starts to move.
The steps aren't difficult, but proximity makes them sharp. His breath is warm across your temple. The pressure of his hand at your back is solid, steady. His grip on your other hand tightens briefly when your heel drags just a touch too long.
"You're trying not to step on me," you whisper.
"I'm trying not to throw you."
You hum, eyes lifting to meet his. "You should've led with that during the vows."
His eyes catch yours for half a second. The contact burns.
Then—without permission or warning—you lace your fingers through his.
He goes still.
The song continues.
You dance anyway.
He doesn't pull away.
—
The room upstairs is quiet, lit by a single candle guttering in the draft from the cracked window. The dossier lies open on the desk, its pages covered in carefully inked lies—names, dates, private habits invented by strangers. There's a whole section on nightly routine.
Levi stands near the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching you.
You sit on the edge of the bed, legs folded beneath you. The linen is cool under your legs, worn soft by time and starch, and the faint scent of dried lavender lingers in the mattress. One hand trails across the dossier's page, and you feel the sharpness of inked fiction settle beneath your fingertips.
"Let's rehearse something," you say casually, not looking up.
He doesn't respond.
You pat the mattress beside you. "Come on, Edward. If we're going to be convincing, we can't freeze up every time there's linen involved."
He doesn't move.
You lift your eyes to meet his. "I promise not to bite."
"I don't believe you," he says.
Still, after a long pause, he crosses the room. Slow. Reluctant. Like every step toward the bed is a concession he's not sure he wants to make.
He stops beside you.
You tilt your head. "You planning to just stand there all night?"
Another pause.
Then, finally, he sits—careful and rigid, like the mattress might detonate. His presence on the bed shifts the weight beneath you slightly, and you feel the space between your bodies hum with unfinished conversation.
You lean closer. "Darling," you murmur, testing the word. "Don't be so tense. The bed's warmer when you're in it."
His jaw works once. Twice. You catch it—the subtle twitch of tension, the moment where some line in his mind bends but doesn't quite break.
"Elowyn," he says, finally.
Just your name.
But the way he says it makes your breath catch. You imagine your real name between his teeth in a darker room, a different tone.
You watch him for a moment. He doesn't meet your eyes.
You smile faintly. "Good start."
And you leave it there. You both do.
The dossier remains open. The candle burns lower.
He doesn't move at first.
Then, slowly—like he's not sure why—he lowers himself beside you.
He stays sitting.
The silence is comfortable. Unfinished. Charged.
Neither of you lie down.
Not yet.