The long dining table gleamed beneath the glow of iron candelabras, their flames flickering in the silence. Plates of roasted pheasant, root vegetables, and freshly baked bread steamed gently, filling the air with warmth that seemed at odds with the chill stretching between husband and wife.
Sophia sat poised on one side, her gown of ivory silk cascading like spilled light. Across from her, Alexander rested in his carved chair, his broad frame upright, his expression unreadable as ever. The only sound was the faint clatter of silver against porcelain when one of them finally moved to eat.
Sophia's gaze lifted once, just once, to catch the flicker of his storm-gray eyes watching her. The look lasted no longer than a heartbeat, but it carried the same weight as a whispered challenge.
She dropped her gaze, spearing a piece of pheasant, her lips curving faintly. So, he is watching still.
The silence stretched, almost taut, until she set down her fork. Her voice cut softly through the still air.
"Your Highness… may I ask something of you?"
Alexander's brow lifted slightly, his hand pausing on the stem of his cup. "That depends on the asking."
Sophia's lips curved in a smile that was both demure and deliberate. "I find the hours long when I am left to idleness. To pass time… and to honor my place here, I would like permission to oversee certain matters of this household. A wife should keep her home in order, after all."
The words were laced with tradition, yet beneath them shimmered her true intent. She needed influence, authority, and eyes in every corner of these walls.
Alexander's gaze sharpened, weighing her request. "Administration and redecor, you mean?"
"Yes," she replied smoothly. "The east wing has been neglected for too long. Rooms left to dust, courtyards falling to ruin. Allow me to see to them. It would reflect well upon you, and it would… occupy me."
His silence lasted long enough that the servants in the corners held their breath. Finally, Alexander set his cup down, the faintest sigh leaving him.
"Very well. You may have charge over the wing. But you will consult Damien regarding expenses and resources. He answers to me."
Sophia inclined her head gracefully, though inwardly her thoughts danced. A leash, but even a leash grants a longer stride than chains.
"Thank you, Your Highness," she murmured.
Dinner continued, quiet once more, until Sophia broke it again with a seemingly casual remark.
"There is also a tradition I must remind you of," she said softly, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. "On the day after the wedding, it is custom for the bride to return to her father's house, accompanied by her husband. It shows unity between families, and… a harmonious bond."
Alexander's fork stilled, his jaw tightening. "I see no need to play into such shallow rituals."
Sophia leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming with a subtle heat. "And yet, others see it as a test. If we ignore the custom, the court will whisper. The concubines will pounce. They are already watching for cracks. Do we wish to hand them proof?"
His eyes narrowed. "You speak as though our marriage were a stage."
"Is it not?" she countered softly. "If we are to live in shadows here, let them at least believe we stand together. What they believe may yet shield us."
For a moment, silence fell again, thicker this time, layered with his suspicion and her persistence. Alexander studied her, searching for the deception beneath her argument. But her face—serene, composed, yet burning with determination—gave him little.
At last, he exhaled through his nose, the faintest flicker of weariness shadowing his gaze.
"Very well," he said, reluctant but final. "Tomorrow, I will accompany you. But mark me, Sophia—this is not for them. It is because you are my wife, and a husband's absence would be read as insult."
Sophia's smile curved, triumphant yet tempered. "Then let them read devotion instead."
For the first time that evening, Alexander looked away, his hand curling around the stem of his cup as though to anchor himself. Her words unsettled him, tugging at something he did not want stirred.
The meal ended with little else spoken, but the silence that followed was no longer as cold. Instead, it thrummed with something unspoken, a tension woven from defiance, suspicion, and the faintest thread of reluctant alliance.