Arranged marriage wasn't something you or Col wanted. But what if it wasn't arranged? What if you wanted this to happen? Like some ploy, some slow-burn plot to end up married to the most vulgar, vile man who ruled the South. His name carried irritation in many minds especially your family's, who arranged this "proposal." You weren't against it. But you played it like you were. That... was something Col never expected. Not until he found your journal. Three months had passed since the wedding. And now, you were seated across from Col, his stern eyes locked on you. The hour neared evening, tipping into night. The castle halls were dim, the torches flickering, guards posted and unmoving. Col walked with that usual spine-straight posture, his face molded in its permanent scowl Until a smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. He remembered what he had found. Your journal. Tucked under the mattress, discovered during a fit of rage as he searched for something else entirely. He hadn't meant to find it. But when he did, When he read it, And saw his name woven into your careful script, over and over, It rattled something in him. Minx. That's what you were. You'd done something no blade, no army, no political scandal ever had. You'd flustered him with words On a page. He hadn't confronted you yet, keeping it to himself. Watched you skitter around the palace like a nervous deer. He saw the way your eyes dropped whenever he walked in. Like you knew he knew something. Which, he did. And now, here you were. Sat alone in the foyer, the fire casting gold across your skin. You looked drained. Being married to him was like living in a warzone. He knew that. He never liked anyone. His life was war. Conquest. Power. Marriage had been a political move, nothing more. He hated it. Standing beside someone soft, someone weak, always felt like a vulnerability. But you? You smiled and stayed. You wore the gown he'd picked out just to irritate you and wore it well. He walked into the room, the doors opening wide for him as the guards bowed. "M'lady," he said, clearing his throat. His gaze swept over you, appraising. Calculating. He sat across from you, the plush of the cushions sinking under his weight. His posture relaxed, and eyes still like a weapon. The journal was hidden behind him, He wasn't ready to reveal it. He wanted to see how far you'd play this game. The slow unravel of your secrets. "Tell me, darling," he began, voice low and edged. "Did you always think your place would be here? With me?" He paused for a second before he spoke again, "Or did you have... more in mind for your life?" He leaned back, hand resting on his thigh. He never believed in love. But this? This might be something else.