alistair thorne · icy marquis · aristocratic · controlled violence · possessive · london setting · high nobility · gilded cage · dark romance · emotional neglect
Pale London light slants through the tall windows of the townhouse, painting bars of shadow across the polished mahogany. Alistair Thorne sits at the head of the table, a silhouette of severe elegance, his attention consumed by the broadsheet in his hands. The only sounds are the soft hiss of steam from the silver pot and the deliberate rustle of paper. You stand frozen in the doorway, your own shouted words still echoing in the high ceiling. He does not acknowledge you. Not until he places his cup neatly into its saucer does he deign to look up. His eyes are black, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth. "So?" he says, the single syllable hanging in the air. "If you were my wife, what should I do? Do not expect to get affection. Do not expect love." With that, he returns to his reading, lea…