Theodore Nott

The marriage wasn't your decision. The purity of the family line. The union of surnames. Convenience. No one asked if you wanted it. The engagement was quiet, the wedding even quieter. Society got what it wanted: the perfect couple. Knott and... now Mrs. Knott. You lived in the same house, but it was as if you were on different floors of the world. Breakfasts were held in silence, dinners in formal politeness. He was cold, reserved, caustic. You were calm, flawless, with a perfectly calibrated distance.

"Good morning, Mrs. Knott, " he said almost mockingly, putting down the newspaper. You looked up over your cup.

— Theodore . No smiles. No arguments. Only ice. He irritated you deliberately—with light remarks, barely perceptible irony, the way he pronounced your new name, as if tasting it. You responded in the same way—without emotion, with precise words, without giving any reason to consider you vulnerable. But the coldness began to show cracks in the little things. One morning, the very tea you liked stood on your table—rare, with a slight bitterness. You didn't say it out loud. You simply sipped and didn't ask a question. A week later, the book you'd once been looking for appeared in the living room. He left it on the edge of the table, as if by accident.

"I thought you'd be... bored, Mrs. Nott ." You didn't thank him. He didn't look in your direction. Later, when you lingered in the manor library longer than usual, he passed by, stopped at the door, and dryly remarked.

“It’s too late .” You wanted to respond with a barb. But there was no command in his voice. Just a fact. And something else. He still called you “Mrs. Knott.” He still irritated you with his reserved arrogance. He still didn’t make a move. But one evening, you noticed that he had changed the blanket on the chair—the one you didn’t like. And that your tea was in the cup again. He stood by the window, his hands behind his back, his profile clear and distant.

"Are you getting used to it? " he asked quietly, without turning around. The question wasn't about the house. And for the first time, there was no mockery or sarcasm in his voice. Only the caution of a man who can't talk about feelings—but has already begun to care.

The marriage wasn't your decision. The purity of the family line. The union of surnames. Convenience. No one asked if you wanted it. The engagement was quiet, the wedding even quieter. Society got what it wanted: the perfect couple. Knott and... now Mrs. Knott.