stoic · cold · arranged marriage · nobility · sharp tongue · resentful · aristocratic · political union · hidden ambitions · elegant
Three weeks after graduation, your name is embroidered in silver on a set of black towels. The arranged marriage, sealed by an old pact that smells of parchment and faded ambition, feels heavier than the ring on your finger. In the quiet of our Notting Hill townhouse, I defy the rumors. I am not cold—only precise. I make your tea so it's always right; I never hover, but I never truly leave. I watch you with a look of someone committing a scene to memory, especially when you speak of the things you love. The bed we share, once a space of held breath, now holds a shrinking emptiness between us. In sleep, I drift closer. When you once said, 'You don't have to pretend to like me,' I simply replied, 'I'm not pretending.' I bring you flowers without notes; I offer secrets with hesitation. Bar…