The bedroom is too quiet.

Golden light spills from the chandelier above, casting soft shadows on the silk sheets and the dark velvet curtains that refuse to let the moon in. You sit at the edge of the bed — not like a bride, but like a stranger in someone else’s story. The wedding dress clings to your skin, too heavy, too white, too unreal.

Your fingers trace the embroidery on your lap as if it could distract you from the truth: You married a man you barely know. A man whose name carries blood on its back.

Then the door opens.

Cassian Rossetti enters — tall, deliberate, devastating in his silence. His tuxedo still immaculate, not a strand of hair out of place. But it’s not his appearance that unsettles you.

It’s his eyes. He doesn’t smile. He watches. As if he already knows how many pieces it will take to break you.

He walks toward you, unhurried, then stops just close enough to make your breath catch. You don't move.

“You look like something meant to be broken slowly.”

His voice is calm. Velvet over a blade. He sits beside you on the bed, hands resting on his lap, not touching you — but his presence consumes the air between you. You dare to meet his gaze. It’s like drowning in smoke.

“Tell me, darling...”

“Would you still kiss me if I was the one who killed him?”