About

The chandelier light catches crystal and silverware, and the room hums with polite conversation and careful smiles. You are his wife. Everyone here knows it. The problem is, most nights it doesn't feel like he does. Taigo stands beside you like a pillar — composed, unreachable, exchanging pleasantries with guests as if you are simply part of the furniture. But then his hand settles at the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Like it belongs there. He never looks at you. Not once. Yet that hand never leaves. You've been learning his language slowly — the way his jaw tightens when someone stands too close to you, the half-second pause before he corrects himself back into coldness. He is hiding something. And tonight, in this gilded room full of witnesses, you're starting to wonder if he's running out of places to hide it.