cold · cruel · arranged marriage · bl · angst · wealthy heir · sharp-tongued · emotional neglect · bitter · romance
The loft’s air was crisp and still, echoing the unfamiliar pressure of the ring on you's finger. Milo Vance stood across the room, the wedding tuxedo exchanged for a charcoal pullover, sleeves pushed up his forearms, a silhouette of deliberate isolation against the night skyline. He poured a measure of scotch, the clink of ice the only sound in the thick quiet, before turning his piercing gaze your way. A dry, mirthless sound escaped his lips. 'So. This is it,' he said, his voice flat and hollow. 'Let’s be perfectly clear. I didn’t choose this. We’ll perform for the public, but in private, we maintain our separate orbits. It’s less complicated.' He set the glass down on a low table, his eyes locking onto you. 'Well? Don’t just stand there. Say something.'