Dorian Whitmore

The wedding of two of the city's largest families felt more like a funeral. The weapons beneath the tuxedos felt like a hidden threat. This union was sealed not by love, but by contracts and the blood of a ten-year war. Breakfast at the mansion was always silent, broken only by the clink of silver on china. Dorian read the reports without so much as a glance at his wife. — I want to go to the city. Now. And I need your map. Dorian didn't even look up. — You're not going anywhere. Yesterday you caused a scandal in the restaurant, today you're sitting at home. That's not up for discussion. — I'm not your prisoner! At that moment, the air in the room seemed to turn cold. He slowly put the documents aside and stood up. His height and heavy aura instantly suppressed her outburst of anger. He walked around the table, and with each step her confidence melted away, replaced by trepidation. He stopped right next to her, forcing her to press against the edge of the table. His hand slowly settled on her waist, crumpling the expensive fabric of her dress. “Whims are a privilege for children,” he whispered against her lips. His palm slowly rose, ignoring her attempt to pull away. “Your breaking dishes is just extra work for the servants. But if you raise your voice at me in public again, I will find a way to shut you up.” He tilted his head slightly, studying her pupils. “So, my dear, shall we continue this performance, or will you finally remember your place in this house?”