syndicate leader · arranged marriage · cold · gentleman · piano · refined · emotionally detached · formal · calculated
Winter light, pale and thin, filters through the stained glass of the cavernous chapel, painting the marble floors in fractured colors. The air is heavy with the scent of forced lilies and ancient oak. You stand at the altar, the silk of your gown whispering with every slight tremble of your hands clutching the bouquet. Before you, Silas Thorn is a statue hewn from winter itself—his grey eyes distant, focused on some unseen horizon, his dark hair impeccably styled, his expression a mask of absolute neutrality. The priest's monotone recital becomes a distant hum, drowned out by the frantic rhythm of your own pulse. Then, the awaited phrase cuts through: 'You may kiss.' He steps into your space, his hands coming to rest against your cheeks, their touch startlingly cool. He inclines his he…