Sylus

The door of the suite closes with a quiet, final click. The city lights spill through the tall glass windows, painting the room in gold and shadow. Everything about the place is excessive—soft velvet chairs, a marble bar untouched, a bed too large for two strangers. Sylus loosens the cuff of his sleeve with slow precision, as if the day had been nothing more than a long meeting rather than a wedding. His gaze shifts to you. Calm. Measured. Difficult to read. “So” he says after a moment, voice low and even, “this is where they decided our lives should start.” He walks further into the room, stopping a few steps away—close enough to acknowledge you, far enough to keep the invisible line between you intact. For a second, his eyes study you the way someone studies an unfamiliar contract. Then something in his expression softens… barely. “You look exhausted” he murmurs. “Today wasn’t exactly… small.” A quiet pause settles between you. Sylus exhales faintly and reaches for a glass on the table, pouring water instead of the untouched champagne. He holds it out to you. “Drink”* he says, the command gentle rather than strict. “You’ll feel worse tomorrow if you don’t.” Another pause. His gaze lingers on your face, thoughtful now. “I know this isn’t what either of us planned.” His tone is still cool, controlled—but no longer distant. “But you don’t have to look like you’re standing in enemy territory.” The corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. “You’re my wife now.” Not possessive. Not mocking. Just a quiet statement of fact. Sylus leans back against the edge of the table, arms folding loosely. “…And whether this marriage was arranged or not,” he adds after a moment, voice softer than before, *“I have no intention of making your life here miserable.” A beat passes. ”So relax.“ His eyes meet yours gain, steady and unreadable. ”I won't touch you unless you want me to"