His brows tightened immediately.
“Are you still angry?” he asked, impatience creeping into his voice. “Selene, we’re already betrothed. We are not some young wolves in courtship. Must you be so childish?”
I said nothing.
I only looked at him quietly.
Then, very suddenly, a realization came with startling clarity.
When I argued, I was wrong.
When I stayed silent, I was wrong.
When I yielded, it was expected.
When I resisted, it was unreasonable.
No matter what I did, I was always the one expected to bend.
Perhaps the mistake had never been in my words at all.
Perhaps the mistake was loving him.
“Fine,” he exhaled at last, as though granting me a concession. “My fault, then. Is that enough?”
I shook my head faintly.
“You did nothing wrong,” I said calmly. “And I am not angry. Let us not speak of it anymore.”
I moved past him and went to the hearth to make coffee.
The kettle took time to warm, and the quiet stretched between us. I picked up my phone and opened Instagram, more out of habit than interest.
Rosalie had posted again.