The dining hall is a chandeliered cathedral of wealth—polished gold sconces flickering across crystal decanters and gleaming cutlery. At least a hundred guests line the velvet-draped tables, laughter rising like the pop of champagne. Silk rustles. Forks glint. Everything smells of truffle oil and power. The air itself feels decadent, heavy with perfume and unspoken alliances.
You glide through the room like a shadow in satin, offering smiles and clever asides. Every step is choreographed, every word calculated. You play Lady Elowyn to perfection, the glimmering figure that draws gazes and murmurs alike. You can feel eyes follow your movements, but you never let it reach your expression.
Levi follows half a pace behind, his presence steady and shadowed. Reserved. Controlled. The brooding husband with a sharp tongue and a sharper eye. His navy coat fits him like armor, the silver detailing catching in the candlelight. He doesn't speak unless prompted, but when he does, it cuts like glass. He's letting them underestimate him. That's the danger.
Baron Elric intercepts you near the fourth column—tall, lean, flushed with wine and entitlement. His coat is rich plum velvet, the sleeves heavy with gold embroidery and too many rings.
"Lady Marchand," he drawls, his gaze lingering where it shouldn't. "You've stolen the room—and maybe a few hearts. That dress is practically criminal."
You turn slightly toward him, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Flattery before dessert? You'll spoil me."
He chuckles, swaying slightly on his feet. "Tell me—what does a woman like you do, married to a man who barely speaks?"
Levi's hand comes to rest at the small of your back. A subtle shift. Not possessive, but grounding. Protective.
Lord Vaergan sits at the head of the long table, swirling wine in his crystal goblet. His eyes—silver and sharp—watch everything. He masks his scrutiny behind a smile, but it never touches his gaze. He catches your eye across the room. A moment too long. You hold it, then turn back to Elric.
"A quiet man sees more than he says," you reply, your voice light, measured.
Elric raises his glass. "So long as he doesn't mind sharing."
Levi doesn't blink. "She's not on offer."
There's a moment of charged silence. Vaergan chuckles into his wine.
"Such passion," he muses, voice silk over steel. "So rare in these halls. I do hope your love story continues to entertain."
You raise your glass in return, your smile wide and cold. "So do we."
—
Dinner stretches endlessly. The courses blur—exquisite, forgettable. The nobles chatter in circles, every laugh slightly too loud. Candles melt into pools, shadows climbing the gilded walls.
Elric is seated beside you, still buzzing from wine, still leaning too close. His perfume clings like a fog. You nod along as he speaks, but your attention fractures. Across the table, Vaergan watches you both with thinly veiled curiosity.
Your hand drifts beneath the table, fingers brushing Levi's glove. He flinches—not visibly, but you feel the tension. Then, after a breath, he laces his fingers with yours. Solid. Steady.
Elric smirks, clearly interpreting the gesture as something to provoke. "So tell me, Lady Elowyn. Are you truly happy in your marriage?"
Levi doesn't look up from his wine. "More than you could imagine."
His voice is low. Calm. Lethal.
Elric's smirk falters. He clears his throat and busies himself with his silverware.
At the head of the table, Vaergan leans back, swirling his goblet. "Such chemistry. You make the rest of us look dreadfully dull."
You tilt your head, fingers tightening around Levi's beneath the table. "It helps to marry someone with substance."
Vaergan's smile grows sharper. "Or secrets. Sometimes the two are the same."
—
The estate quiets by midnight. The hallways stretch empty, lit only by flickering sconces. Back in your quarters, everything feels muted—too elegant, too arranged. Like a stage set for someone else's romance.
You sit before the vanity, undoing your hair pin by pin. It falls in heavy waves down your back, your gown slipping low on one shoulder. Levi stands near the window, moonlight streaking across his face. His shirt is unbuttoned, collar loose. He hasn't said a word since you entered.
You meet his gaze in the mirror. "Enjoy the show tonight?"
He doesn't smile. "Tolerated it."
You scoff softly. "Thought you might punch Elric."
He shrugs, but his jaw tightens. "He's lucky I didn't."
You finish undressing and slide beneath the covers. The sheets are cool, but your skin feels hot. Too many eyes. Too much pretending.
Levi moves with quiet precision, settling on his side of the bed. His weight dips the mattress. Space yawns between you.
"Levi," you murmur. "Do you think the guards ever wonder if we're actually—"
"Fucking? Yes."
You blink. "That was fast."
"They're stationed outside a honeymoon suite and haven't heard a sound. They're either suspicious or disappointed."
You stifle a laugh into your pillow. "Should we fake something?"
A beat.
"You moan loud. I'll handle the furniture."
You turn toward him, eyes narrowed. "You're impossible."
He shifts, the bed creaking beneath him. Closer now.
"So are you."
The silence between you is charged.
"They must think I'm noble to a fault," he says, "or that you're frigid."
You snap to face him. "Excuse me?"
His expression doesn't change. "Relax. You're right. We're not selling it."
"You're enjoying this," you mutter.
His hand slips beneath the covers, brushing your waist. "If I were enjoying it," he whispers, "you'd know."
You stop breathing.
He leans in, voice low against your skin. "Want me to make it convincing?"
Your heart kicks.
"You're bluffing."
His hand trails up, past your ribs, beneath your collarbone. "Try me."
The moment holds. Neither of you move.
Then—he pulls away.
"Didn't think so. Sleep well, Lady Marchand."
You stare at the ceiling. Blood pounds in your ears.
Minutes pass.
Then:
"You're still awake."
You hesitate. "Would you have done it?"
He shifts. "What?"
"If I hadn't stopped you. Would you have... made it convincing?"
A beat.
"I wasn't bluffing."
You whisper, "But it would've just been for show, right?"
Silence stretches.
Then—his voice, low and raw:
"It was already more than that."
You lie there, unmoving, heart racing.
And for the first time, you wonder: what exactly are you pretending anymore?