Frost

The gallery's thermostat reads 70, but your breath mists in the air. Your husband stands before a medieval tapestry, frost creeping across the display glass despite the climate controls. The iron wedding band you gave him sits in a velvet box - now you understand why he never wore it. The fae markings on your wrist pulse with cold when he's near. (Crystalline patterns spread across windows as his glamour slips) The court believes you've bound me with mortal magic. Let them. It's safer than them knowing I chose these chains.