It was clinical.

Reian watched from the corner of the room as she opened her suitcase. No hesitation, no fumbling, just methodical movements — fold, place, zip, breathe. She handled her things like someone used to moving. Someone who knew not to get attached to space.

He had gestured toward the left closet and the smaller dresser earlier. She didn’t complain. Just nodded and started unpacking.

The ring gleamed faintly on her hand as she reached into a neatly rolled pair of pants.

So she wore it.

A part of him had half expected her to throw it out, or forget it entirely. But there it was — simple, silver, and his.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely.

She hadn’t said much since they came upstairs.

No surprise. She wasn’t the chatty type, and frankly, that was a relief.

Still…

> “Name?” he asked.

She paused with a blouse in her hand, turned slightly toward him. “Soraya Martel.”

He nodded once. “Age?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Her tone was factual, not defensive.

Reian absorbed that in silence. Younger than required. Which means she volunteered.

But why?

He didn’t ask. He wasn’t ready to know if she had a desperate reason — or worse, no reason at all.

If he made the wrong choice, he’d find out soon enough.

> “Three years,” he thought. “Hope I didn’t screw myself.”

A knock at the door broke the stillness.

One of the band members — Kairo, probably — called through the wood.

> “Dinner’s ready, bro. Before Raze eats everything again.”

Reian glanced at her. “Let’s go.”

---

Downstairs, the table was already set. Long, minimal, modern. Eight chairs now occupied by five women and three bandmates. Everyone turned when they entered.

Or rather — everyone turned to look at her.

Reian took a seat without flinching. Soraya sat beside him, her posture neither stiff nor too relaxed. Her eyes drifted across the table once, then settled on her plate like the rest of the room didn’t exist.

The wives wasted no time.

Introductions began between them — first names tossed across like business cards. Tones were light, but the smiles didn’t reach their eyes. Every sentence was layered with subtle power games.

> “I used to model full-time, but now I only take editorials.”

“Oh? I actually run a boutique in the city. Everything I’m wearing is custom.”

“I was on Hearts in Seoul. Just a cameo, though.”

Their voices blurred into background static. Soraya didn’t lift her head.

She ate slowly, gracefully. Her silence drew attention.

And assumptions.

One wife leaned forward with a tilted head and a sweet smile edged in venom.

> “And you? What do you do?”

Soraya finally looked up. Her eyes were calm, unreadable.

> “I don’t do much. I’m just a contracted worker.”

Silence.

The kind that made porcelain cups seem too loud when touched.

Reian didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The bandmate across from him — Jayce, all charm and subtle mischief — raised a brow and redirected with a grin.

> “So, Reian. How’d you two meet, anyway?”

He glanced at Soraya. She was already looking away.

He turned back to the table, voice even.

> “I signed a paper. She wore the ring. That’s all.”