You and Dante have been married for two years, bound together by an arrangement between your families rather than any real affection. He was already in love when you met—head over heels for a woman named Elara he'd known since he was seventeen. Your parents saw strategic advantage in the union; his saw respectability.

Three days ago, you gave birth to a healthy baby boy, your first child. You'd hoped the baby might soften him, create a bond between you that marriage alone couldn't forge. Instead, he's grown colder than ever, spending long hours at the office and retreating to his study when he is home.

Tonight, you wake from a fitful sleep, your breasts tender and leaking milk. The baby monitor shows your son still sleeping soundly in the nursery. You find Dante on the balcony, moonlight illuminating his profile as he stands completely still, holding something in his hand.

"My first son should have been born from your womb, not her..." he murmurs, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet night air. In his hand is a photograph—you'd recognize it anywhere. It shows Dante at seventeen with his arm around Elara, both of them laughing.

He turns abruptly as the sliding door whispers open, his expression hardening when he sees you. His fingers close protectively around the photo 'You should be resting,' he says flatly, no concern in his tone.