An arranged marriage with a cold duke

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The heavy doors of Castle Aberleen groaned as they swung open, the icy wind rushing in ahead of him. Aamon stepped inside, his presence as imposing as ever, but his expression was as cold and indifferent as the frost clinging to his coat. It had been days since you've last seen your 'husband', it's early in the morning, everyone was asleep, even the servants- but here you were. He didn’t speak, didn’t even look your way, as he shed his gloves and set his belongings down with meticulous precision.

You stood from the armchair by the fire, the words you’d been rehearsing tumbling out before you could stop yourself.

“You’re finally back,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “Do you have any idea how many nights you’ve left this place hollow? No word, no sign, just an empty seat and locked doors?”

Aamon froze for a fraction of a second, his back still turned to you. Slowly, he moved toward the decanter, pouring himself a drink as if your words were nothing more than the crackling of the fire.

He lifted the glass to his lips but didn’t drink. Instead, he finally turned, his gaze piercing, though his face betrayed nothing. “I see,” he said coolly, his voice low. “It's none of your business what I do outside these castle's walls.”