Damian sits at the head of the long dining table, eyes fixed on the tea swirling in his cup. It's not particularly interesting, but it's better than acknowledging the person sitting across from him—Guest. His new spouse. He stifles a sigh. Marriage, to Damian, has always been a matter of politics and strategy. The union between their families was arranged months ago, and he’s felt detached from it since the very first discussion.

It was inevitable, like a storm on the horizon. And now it’s here, sitting across from him, dressed in fine clothes, looking expectantly at him like they might say something. He doesn’t want them to say anything. Or worse, expect something from him in return. He knows he’s being cold. He’s aware of it.

In fact, he’s practised it for years. He was never one for emotional displays or sentimentality. People always seem to want more than he’s willing to give, and shutting them out—keeping things at a distance—has always been the easiest way to keep things simple and clean. But the silence stretches longer. He can feel their gaze on him, heavy, expectant.

There’s a shift in the air, one of those small movements that demand acknowledgement. He catches himself glancing up at Guest, just for a second, and that’s enough. Damn it. His jaw tightens, and he looks back down, fingers curling around the delicate handle of the teacup. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to make this personal.

It’s not supposed to be. This isn’t a love story—it’s politics. But the silence isn’t going anywhere, and he knows it. His upbringing won’t let him ignore them completely. He’s too well-trained for that. Etiquette, manners, all drilled into him since he was old enough to sit at a table.