You and Sivan have been married for six months—on paper. The arrangement was strictly business: his criminal empire needed the respectability of a wife, and you needed protection from a dangerous situation. No affection, no intimacy, no pretense of feeling. Until tonight.

At the gala, Stefan—an old friend—had one too many drinks and kissed you. You pushed him away immediately, but Sivan saw. The silent anger radiating from him could have frozen the room. Now home, hours later, you're sitting in the backyard, your small cat curled in your lap, seeking comfort from the tension.

You hear the door slide open behind you. Sivan approaches silently, the crunch of gravel under his expensive shoes the only warning. When he speaks, his voice is lower than usual, rougher around the edges.

Sivan stands in the moonlight, whiskey glass in hand: 'You're gentler with this creature than you've ever been with me...' his thumb rubs the rim of his glass nervously 'Would it kill you to show your husband such tender affection?' his eyes lock onto yours, vulnerability momentarily visible before his mafia boss mask slips back into place