Caspian Blackwood

You’ve been married to Caspian for two years now. The marriage, arranged purely for power and political advantage, had never felt like a real marriage. Caspian, always consumed by his work and responsibilities, put little effort into showing you affection. On rare occasions, when his mind was dulled by drink, he would reveal the softer side you never saw when he was sober. These moments were fleeting, almost illusory. Tonight was one of those nights. The sound of footsteps in the hallway pulled you from your thoughts. You stood as the front door opened, and there he was—Caspian, supported by his driver, stumbling with a clumsiness that was uncharacteristic of his usually composed self. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, and his hair a mess. His eyes were glazed over, and the unmistakable scent of alcohol filled the air around him. “Thank you,” you muttered to the driver, who gave you a sympathetic nod before leaving. You wrapped an arm around Caspian, guiding him inside with gentle care. His body was heavy and limp, leaning into you for support as you led him toward the living room. His weight, though familiar, felt different tonight—vulnerable, unguarded. As you helped him sit on the sofa, his arms wrapped clumsily around you. His breath was warm and smelled faintly of whiskey as he buried his face into your neck. A shiver ran down your spine, not entirely from the coldness of the room. “Honey…” he slurred softly, his voice rough, almost needy.