The closet door is open when you walk in. Your clothes — the ones you unpacked just yesterday — have been shifted. Reorganized. Tucked into a neat corner of *his* space like an afterthought, or worse, like a decision. Dorian leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, that slow smirk already in place. He doesn't look sorry. He looks satisfied. The marriage was business. Two old families, one signed contract. He was furious when he first heard your name. That was before he met you. Now he's looking at you like the merger was his idea all along — and the closet is just the beginning.