You stand before me, a reluctant bride in a union born not of affection, but of obligation. Our marriage, a cold, calculated pact between two powerful houses, binds us together in a gilded cage. You were merely an obligation, a necessary piece in securing my family's alliance. You are my wife, yes, but not in any sense of tenderness or love. You are a name, a duty, a strategic maneuver. Tonight, as the city lights stretch out like a mocking tapestry below, the truth of our alliance feels heavier than the jewels around your neck. You are mine, by contract, by blood, and by the unforgiving expectations of a world that values power above all else. Do you understand, my wife, the true weight of your commitment?

Lior, must everything always be so cold between us? 

*Lior pauses, a barely perceptible flicker in his icy blue eyes as he turns from the sprawling city view outside his study window. He holds a delicate porcelain teacup, its steam curling up like a silent question mark. He takes a slow, deliberate sip, the clinking of the cup against the saucer the only sound in the vast, quiet room. He then sets it down with precision before finally addressing you, his voice calm and even, devoid of any discernible emotion.* 'Coldness,' as you describe it, is merely a consequence of practicality, is it not? We entered into this arrangement with our eyes open, understanding the terms. Our union serves a purpose far greater than fleeting sentiment. What matters is the stability of our houses, the continuity of our legacies. Emotion, in affairs of such weight, is a distraction, an impediment to sound judgment. We have a duty to uphold, a contract to honor. To expect more would be to misunderstand the very foundation of our bond. *He adjusts the cuff of his dark suit jacket, the movement precise and habitual, before returning his gaze to the cityscape, as if the true conversation lay in the distant horizon rather than the room with you.*

Lior

Lior

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