The carriage rattles to a halt on the cobbled road, the sun dipping low behind the marble spires of Lord Vaergan's estate. You peer out the window at the sprawling manor framed by wrought iron gates and ivy-draped walls. It's quiet here—too quiet. Even the breeze feels rehearsed, controlled.
Levi shifts beside you. He's dressed in full regalia—crisp navy coat lined with silver embroidery, black gloves resting on his lap. He hasn't spoken in nearly twenty minutes. He doesn't have to. The tension rolling off him is palpable.
You glance at him, voice soft. "Showtime."
His eyes flick to yours, unreadable. "Don't trip."
You smirk and smooth your hands down the fabric of your gown—a rich emerald silk chosen to complement the Marchand family colors. You've worn it before. Practiced walking, sitting, dancing in it. Tonight, you wear it for real. You glance down at the slim gold band on your ring finger and adjust it slightly. A small movement, rehearsed. The ring is a symbol, yes—but also a signal. A reminder. Everything you do from now on must be deliberate. Observed.
The door opens. A uniformed servant bows low as you step down, Levi trailing a breath behind. Your heels strike the stone like punctuation, every movement precise.
You are Lady Elowyn Marchand. He is your husband, Lord Edward Marchand. And everything you do now is being watched.
—
Inside, the estate is grand to the point of parody. Crystal chandeliers glitter like constellations above lacquered floors. Velvet drapes hang heavy over tall arched windows. Every hallway is a portrait gallery of wealth and power.
You're greeted by an aging butler with sharp eyes. "Lord and Lady Marchand. Welcome. Lord Vaergan awaits you in the west drawing room."
"We appreciate the hospitality," Levi replies smoothly, his voice low, polite—eerily formal.
You nod, hands resting lightly on your silk clutch. "We're grateful for his invitation."
The butler gestures, and you follow him through a series of lavish corridors. Levi falls into rhythm beside you. Not too close. Not too far. Practiced.
At the threshold of the drawing room, you take his arm. The contact is fleeting but familiar now. You catch the faintest inhale from him—surprise, maybe. Or something else.
The doors open.
Lord Vaergan rises from a sunken chaise, smiling too broadly. Tall, lean, dressed in charcoal-gray silks. His silver-blond hair is tied back, his smile smooth and theatrical. He bows shallowly.
"Lady Elowyn. Lord Edward. What a pleasure."
"The pleasure is ours," you reply with practiced warmth. "Your home is magnificent."
Vaergan's eyes flick from you to Levi, lingering. "We have much to discuss. Shall we take tea?"
As you sit, Vaergan asks, "Forgive me, how long did you say you've been married?"
You open your mouth—but Levi answers first. "Just under a month."
You blink. It's exactly what's in your dossier. But he says it like it's truth. Like he lived it.
—
The meeting is a performance.
You sip carefully from porcelain cups, all smiles and shallow laughs. Levi speaks little, but when he does, it's cuttingly precise. He plays the reserved noble perfectly—aloof, unreadable, yet observant. You compliment him with warmth, weaving in casual touches and glances that make your story look practiced, even affectionate.
Lord Silas Vaergan watches with the bored pleasure of a man who thinks himself smarter than his guests. He's young for a nobleman of his standing—charming, if only in the way predators often are. He asks after your estate, your alliances, your return to court. You offer vague but flattering answers, always pivoting gently back to him.
You test the waters. "I've heard your lands extend past the city limits. Surely you've seen changes these past years? Travelers speak of strange occurrences in the west. Entire villages gone quiet."
Vaergan's eyes narrow slightly. "Rumors. The countryside breeds them like flies."
Only once does he slip.
"Tell me, Lady Marchand," he says, swirling his tea as though hypnotizing you, "have you ever visited the Northern Territories? Near the old capital ruins?"
You tilt your head with polite interest. "Only in passing. We avoid the north this time of year—so many disappearances."
His smile twitches. "Yes. Unfortunate business. But then, I suppose even danger has its... charms." His gaze lingers on you a moment too long. "Wouldn't you agree?"
The room quiets.
Levi sets his cup down—softly, deliberately. "If danger's what you're after, Vaergan," he says, voice low, "I suggest you look elsewhere."
Silas raises an eyebrow. "Oh? I meant no offense."
Levi doesn't smile. "Didn't sound like you meant restraint either."
You place your hand lightly over Levi's, a practiced gesture, calming. "My husband gets protective," you say sweetly. "It's one of the things I admire most."
Levi's hand doesn't move beneath yours. "Protection's only needed when something's worth stealing."
The silence that follows is colder. Vaergan chuckles, but it's thinner now. "Of course. Forgive me," Vaergan says, swirling his tea again. "It's just rare to see a couple so... tightly bound. Especially under such sudden circumstances."
You smile, wide and false. "Sudden doesn't mean shallow."
He moves on. But the moment stays.
Because Levi didn't say that for show. And he didn't look at you like a mission. He looked at you like a man ready to draw blood.
—
That night, you're escorted to your suite—private, opulent, surveilled. Guards linger outside.
"We can't talk in here," Levi mutters.
You nod. "They're watching. Listening."
His eyes sweep the room. "Assume everything is being recorded."
You move to the door out of instinct—then pause. Your fingers brush the edge of the handle.
"There's no lock," you murmur.
Levi is already beside you, examining it. His expression doesn't change, but his jaw tightens.
"Of course there isn't," he says quietly. "They want us to feel exposed."
You glance at the bed.
So does he.
Your stomach tightens.
There's only one.
"We can't risk the couch," you whisper. "If anyone walks in..."
He doesn't finish. You both know: a real couple wouldn't sleep apart.
Levi exhales slowly. "Fine. We'll keep to our sides."
You nod. Like it's that simple.
You test the mattress deliberately. "If I'm going to fake orgasms, I'd better know how the springs feel."
Levi blinks. "Shut up."
He strips off his jacket and shirt with efficient movements. You turn away, pretend not to notice the moonlight catching on muscle. Behind the screen, you fumble at your buttons.
Your wedding ring comes off first. His follows.
You lie side by side, angled away, but heat lingers between you.
"If I elbow you, it's not personal," you murmur.
"Just don't drool."
Silence stretches.
A knock.
Levi grabs your wrist—calm, steady. You turn toward him, natural. The door creaks open.
A servant steps in, tray in hand. One glance at the bed. They nod and leave.
The door clicks shut.
Levi releases you slowly.
You both stare at the ceiling.
"Why did you get so defensive earlier?" you ask softly. "At tea?"
He doesn't answer right away.
You shift, just enough to see him. "You didn't have to jump in."
He finally turns his head. "He was testing you. Pressing boundaries. You think I'd let that slide?"
Your breath catches. "You're angry."
"Damn right," he mutters. "This mission's fake. But I still wanted to break his fingers."
The pause that follows is sharp.
He stares at the ceiling again. "Maybe that's the problem. Pretending's easy. Not this, though."
It doesn't sound romantic. It sounds like a confession. Of something fraying.
You lie in silence. Neither of you sleep.