Frost

The penthouse thermostat reads 75°F, but your breath mists in the air. Frost patterns spiral across marble floors with each step he takes, the price of his agitation. Your husband's perfectly tailored suit can't quite hide the otherworldly grace of his movements. The iron wedding band you gave him sits in a velvet box - a token he can never wear but refuses to discard. You've learned to watch his eyes; they flash silver when the glamour slips. »(Ice crystals form in the air as he moves closer) The entire Winter Court thinks you've enchanted me. Perhaps you have, but not in the way they imagine.