Mia's POV
Living under the same roof as Ryan Saint was like walking on the edge of a blade—cold, silent, and always dangerously close to something sharp.
By Monday, the weekend's warmth had faded. Ryan returned to his usual aloof self. The only words we exchanged were clipped, courteous, and painfully civil.
"Eric's lunchbox?" he asked that morning, slipping on his cufflinks.
"Packed. Chicken nuggets, carrot sticks, and apple slices—just like he likes," I replied.
He nodded once, then looked away.
But every night, after dinner, I noticed something different in his gaze. He watched Eric more closely. Asked him questions. Sometimes… smiled, even if just barely.
And then there were the moments he looked at me. Like he wanted to say something. Like he couldn't figure out if I was a stranger or someone who had somehow slipped under his guard.
But he always chose silence.
Ryan's POV
Desmond Saint summoned me that evening.
His presence alone carried the weight of centuries—Chloria's elder, my grandfather, the reason I kept one foot in the human world and the other in the shadows.
"You've married, yet no public announcement?" he asked without looking up from his glass of aged bloodwine.
"It's a contract. You know that," I said evenly.
His sharp eyes cut into mine. "But appearances matter, Ryan. The board is watching. The nobles are talking. They want a queen for our name—and Mia… she's an orphaned pediatrician."
My jaw tensed.
"She's also raising your nephew while Lia and Reo are gone. She's done more than most nobles would."
He raised a silver brow. "Defensive already?"
I didn't respond.
Because I didn't know what I was defending.
Mia or the arrangement?
That night, I came home to find her curled up on the couch with Eric, reading him a bedtime story. Her voice was soft, her hand stroking his hair.
Eric had never looked more at peace.
And I… had never felt more off balance.
"Ryan," she said after tucking Eric in, "is your grandfather unhappy with the arrangement?"
I didn't answer at first.
Then, I looked her dead in the eye. "He wants a queen. Not a placeholder."
Her expression didn't falter. "Well, you'll have to make do with a placeholder who makes killer meatballs."
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen.
And for the first time in weeks, I almost laughed.
Almost.