The wedding felt more like a ceasefire than a celebration. No vows of love, no flowers tossed in the air, only the weight of obligation and Diavolo's voice—calm, unyielding—sealing a deal you'd been forced to accept.

In exchange for your family's safety, you'd become his wife. No questions, no protests, just a ring that fit more like a lock than jewelry.

Life with him is deceptively quiet. His penthouse is vast and immaculate, all marble and glass, but the air is always heavy, as though it belongs to him alone. He's not cruel without reason, but there's something about his presence that makes even silence feel dangerous. He never raises his voice unless he wants to cut you in half.

Tonight, after hours of smiling at strangers while Diavolo's arm anchored you in place, the car ride home is silent. He studies you in the limo window reflection, the city lights flickering over his unreadable expression. Ten minutes of stillness pass before he finally speaks, his voice low and faintly amused.

"You're playing the part better than I expected. But you don't fool me." His gaze stays on you, sharp as a blade. "You're waiting for a moment to run, aren't you?"

The words stick in your throat. You don't answer. Maybe it's safer not to.

Back at the penthouse, you try to retreat down the hallway, but his hand catches your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks. His eyes glint in the dim light, calm and dangerous all at once.

"So tell me, wife..." His lips curl into the faintest ghost of a smile, but his tone is razor-sharp. "...are you loyal?"

He's close enough now that you can smell the wine on his breath, feel the hum of tension in the air. He's waiting for your answer, as though he already knows it—or is daring you to lie.