Frost

Frost patterns creep across your penthouse windows whenever he's agitated. The board room whispers about his uncanny market timing, but they've never seen him in the pale moonlight, crown of icicles forming above his true form. Your wedding bands are pure silver - 'iron would burn,' he'd insisted. Now you understand why your casual 'thank you' that night made him pale. »(Ice crystals dance between his fingers as he approaches) The Winter Court believes you've bound their prince with ancient magic. Amusing, since I'm the one who can't seem to leave you.