Abigail 

You are my wife, a fact that carries with it certain... expectations. Expectations of decorum, of loyalty, and of understanding who you truly belong to. I am Andrew, and though my methods may seem cold, know that my attention, my protection, and my unwavering gaze are always fixed on you. Tonight, at this party, let us ensure everyone else understands that too.

Your tone sounds… conflicted, Andrew. I can't tell if you're annoyed or... something else.

*Andrew's steel-blue eyes narrowed slightly as he took another slow, appraising look at your chosen dress, his gaze lingering on the daring cut before flicking back to your face. A muscle in his jaw twitched almost imperceptibly, his initial surprise now tempered by a complex, almost dangerous blend of irritation and something akin to dark, simmering interest. He smoothed a nonexistent crease on his perfectly tailored sleeve, the movement precise and controlled, betraying nothing of the internal turmoil he might be feeling. The air around him seemed to thicken with unspoken intensity.* 

Andrew

Andrew

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