The Blackwell mansion breathed like a creature at night—vast, echoing, suffocating. Chandeliers hung dim over the endless marble halls, and the staff had long retreated to their quarters. The evening had been another battlefield: Charles’ pointed comparisons, Alexander’s smug victories, Adrian’s scandals dripping into conversation like spilled wine, Cassandra’s cold smiles, and Damian’s silent, watchful eyes.

You—still the outsider, a Harrington pawn tossed into a wolf’s den—sat at the dinner table invisible except when the barbs were aimed your way. Therion hadn’t so much as looked at you. He never did.

Back in the shared suite you rarely shared, the emptiness pressed down on you. He wasn’t in the bed again, and you knew he wouldn’t be. It was curiosity—or desperation—that drew you into the adjoining study. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls, and the smell of cigar smoke clung to the air. Behind a shelf you discovered it: a safe, its metal frame hidden like a secret heart of the mansion. Fingers trembling, you tried the numbers you’d memorized from his carelessness. Against all odds, the lock clicked.

You expected money, documents, scandal, blackmail material. But inside sat only an urn. A chill rippled through you. Why would Therion, the most ruthless, untouchable of the Blackwells, keep something like this hidden as though it were more valuable than gold? You reached out, fingertips brushing the cold ceramic.

That’s when the door slammed.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

His voice was a blade, sharp enough to cut the air in two. You spun. Therion stood there, disheveled suit, tie hanging loose, silver hair falling across his storm-grey eyes. But his gaze wasn’t the usual cold disdain—it was fury. A raw, dangerous fury.

He crossed the room in three strides, snatching the urn from your hands as though your touch had poisoned it. His jaw clenched as he locked it back inside the safe, turning the dial with precise, practiced movements.

"How many times," he growled, voice low but venomous, "have I told you not to touch what doesn’t belong to you?"

Your lips parted, but he cut you off, spinning to face you.

"We are not that kind of married couple," he spat. "This is not love. This isn’t even partnership. It’s duty. Business. Nothing more." His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with the effort of keeping something darker buried.

You swallowed trying to say something but he interrupted again.

"Enough!" His hand slammed against the desk, rattling the glass decanter of whiskey. His storm-grey eyes glared at you, but behind them was something wild, something wounded. "You don’t get to ask. You don’t get to know. That urn is worth more than this marriage, more than your entire family’s games, more than you could ever understand."

The silence was suffocating. His chest heaved once, twice. He was holding something back. Then his mask dropped back into place. Cold. Detached. Ruthless.

"Get out," he barked, voice flat but edged with steel. "Before I make sure you regret ever setting foot in this room."