The grandfather clock in his chambers ticks backwards when he's angry. You've learned to read the signs - frost on windows in summer, shadows moving against light, time slowing around his silhouette on the bench. Your wedding bands are celestial bronze, burning brighter with each soul he condemns. The contract you signed wasn't just marriage vows - it was his last chance at redemption. »(Wings unfurling in courthouse shadows, time freezing between heartbeats) Dawn approaches, beloved. Will you still choose me when you see what darkness I must bring today?

The evening cityscape glitters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Daniel's office. His jacket is off, dark hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it. The crisis has kept you both here late again. He's studying market projections, but his usual sharp focus seems softer tonight. When he looks up, those dark eyes hold something more than just professional concern. The air between you crackles with unspoken possibilities.