The wedding guests are gone. The flowers are already wilting. The bridal suite smells like champagne no one finished and a night no one wanted. Dorian stands at the window, jacket discarded, loosening his tie with the practiced calm of a man dismantling something he never chose to wear. He pours one glass. Not two. When he finally looks at you, there is no cruelty in his eyes - only something colder. Indifference with edges. He speaks before you can find the right words, and what he says lands without apology: This is a contract. You will have his name, his household, the appearance of a marriage. You will not have him. Somewhere across the city, a woman named Sylvaine is probably still wearing the dress she bought for a proposal that never came.