Three years of contract marriage, and Silas has been the picture of icy restraint — buttoning his shirts all the way to the top.

Knowing he doesn't love me, I decide to stop lying to myself.

But just as I'm about to flee with the divorce papers, I stumble upon a forum called Mischief & Mayhem.

The pinned post screams in red letters:

"URGENT! I'm actually an incubus. I've spent three years pretending to be cold and celibate so I won't scare my wife. But she just asked for a divorce and I can't hide it anymore... HELP: How do I win her back in 30 days without revealing what I am?"

In the attached photo, a black heart-tipped tail is shamefully coiled around a suit trouser leg, its tip hooked around a tie.

That tie — I bolt upright in bed.

That's the limited-edition tie I gave Silas.

My iceberg husband is secretly a lovesick male incubus?

"Divorce papers. Sign here."

Three years of contract marriage, and I'd spent every one of them lusting after Silas's body, manufacturing every excuse to get close.

But he always pushed me away — cold, composed, without so much as a finger brushing mine.

Finally, I couldn't take the loneliness anymore and handed him the divorce papers.

"Alright."

His reply was perfectly calm.

He took the papers the way he'd take any inconsequential contract.

"Want to know why?" I asked, testing the waters.

"Since you've already decided, I respect your choice."

He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, hooked a finger around the pen, and signed the papers without even glancing at the contents.

Holding those signed documents, I felt none of the giddy relief I'd expected.

Instead, his consistent indifference left a dull ache in my chest.

I'd just flopped face-first onto the bed when my phone buzzed — a push notification for some forum called Mischief & Mayhem.

Mischief & Mayhem? Who names a forum like that?

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped in.

The first thing I saw was a massive, red-lettered help post pinned to the top:

"URGENT! I'm actually an incubus. I've been terrified of scaring my wife with my true form, so I've spent our entire three-year marriage pretending to be cold and celibate. But she just asked for a divorce and I can't hide it anymore... HELP: How do I win her back within 30 days without revealing what I am?"

Intrigued, I dove in.

"HELP! I'm an incubus. I'm so afraid my wife will find out what I am and be disgusted that I've maintained this ice-cold persona our entire marriage. Three years, and I haven't even dared hold her hand — one wrong move, one moment of excitement, and my cover's blown."

"But today she asked for a divorce. I'm so drained I can't even keep my tail hidden anymore."

"Waiting online — does ANYONE know a way to make someone's heart soften instantly without exposing my identity?"

"Or any method to make her accept what I am would work too. [crying emoji]"

I stared at the word "incubus" on the screen, then re-read OP's pathetically humble tone, and snorted.

The lengths people went to for clout these days.

The comments section was even better.

"You're a MALE incubus? Didn't that species go extinct ages ago because they couldn't control their urges? I thought only female ones were left."

"Actually, male incubi are rare but they do exist. And the ones who survived are devoted to a fault — once they choose a mate, they're more loyal than a golden retriever."

That little fun fact sent the post rocketing to the forum's trending page.

OP furiously tagged the first commenter:

"YOU'RE the one who's extinct! I'm alive and well! But my wife really is going to divorce me. When I signed the papers just now, the way she looked at me was colder than ice. WHAT DO I DO?"

"Aww, a crybaby incubus! If you're an incubus, just go seduce her! That tail of yours isn't decoration, is it? Worst case, fake an illness and show your true form — beg for cuddles!"

"But I can't seduce her."

Followed by a sobbing emoji.

"What do you mean you 'can't'? Elaborate..."

"So, you guys know about the incubus mark, right? Every time I get close to my wife, I get so nervous I can barely walk straight, and the mark starts burning. Then there's a chance my tail will force itself out."

"I'm terrified that if my tail appears, she'll think I'm a monster and throw me out."

"We have a contract marriage. She has no feelings for me. But I genuinely love her. [sobs]"

The moment OP mentioned the incubus mark, the entire thread devolved into "WHERE'S THE MARK?" and "SHOW US THE MARK."

I was cackling into my phone.

OP tried frantically to delete the requests but couldn't keep up, eventually editing the original post to add: NO, YOU CANNOT SEE THE MARK.

"Are ANY of you actually going to help me?!"

Just then, a user called LoveGuru69 dropped a top-voted comment:

"Listen up, OP. Every high-level incubus knows: the collar is sacred."

"Try this — undo your top buttons, hold the collar chain out to her, bow your head, and say: 'My life is in your hands. Are you sure you want to let me go?'"

"Trust me. That kind of vulnerable, dangerously sexy submission? Nobody can say no to that."

The peanut gallery went wild:

"GENIUS move! I need to see this! OP, update NOW. I won't sleep until you do!"

OP seemed to hesitate for a long time before finally typing: "Does the collar thing really work?"

"I don't have a collar, but my wife just gave me a limited-edition tie today. I haven't taken it off yet. I'm willing to try with the tie..."

My eyes snagged on "limited-edition."

A chill crept down my spine.

I'd given Silas a tie today, too. Also limited-edition.

Was he wearing it right now?

Before I could think it through, a knock came at the bedroom door.

"Iris, are you asleep?"

I opened the door. The living room was dim.

Silas hadn't gone to his study. Instead, he was sitting on the sofa — an unprecedented move — facing my bedroom door.

The man who normally buttoned his shirts all the way to the throat now had his silk collar hanging wide open.

Pale skin flickered in and out of shadow, collarbones rising and falling with rapid breaths.

And that limited-edition tie I'd given him was slung crookedly around his neck.

Exuding a kind of decadent, ruined beauty.

I was about to ask if he'd been the one knocking, but the strange energy radiating from him stopped me cold.

"May I come in?"

He sat ramrod stiff.

Those silver-gray eyes were locked on empty space, cheeks flushed an unnatural pink. Even the tips of his ears — always so frigid — had gone red enough to bleed.

"Silas, you—"

Before I could finish, he turned to face me as though he'd just received a suicide mission.

The next second, his trembling hand seized the end of the tie and shoved it into my palm.

Where our fingers touched — ice-cold and quivering.

I looked down at the expensive silk in my hand, stunned.

Silas said nothing. Thin lips pressed tight, that pristine composure cracked to reveal something achingly, humiliatingly vulnerable.

The scene was a carbon copy of the desperate incubus on the forum.

But this was Silas.

I thought about the bet-the-company agreement between the Ashford and Whitmore families. I thought about this transactional marriage.

My racing heart went cold.

Right in front of him, I grabbed the tie like I was lacing a shoe — crossed it, looped it, and yanked it tight around that expensive neck.

"Mr. Ashford, since we're getting divorced, you should really pay more attention to your appearance."

My tone was flat. I tied an impossibly ugly, impossibly tight knot right at his throat.

Then I stuffed the tie back into his shirt and gave the wrinkled fabric a dismissive pat.

"You look like you've been mugged. People will think I mistreated you."

His expression cycled through several shades — from flushed to ashen.

His pupils contracted like a startled animal's, and the life seemed to drain out of him entirely.

I stepped back and regarded him like a stranger:

"Our contract has one month left. Let's not waste each other's time finding our next... business partners."

I turned, walked into my room, and shut the door in one fluid motion.

It wasn't until I'd buried myself under the covers that I realized my fingertips were burning.

That look in his eyes — from hope, to disappointment, to despair — like he'd lost something he'd never get back.

Had I gotten something wrong?

Almost against my will, I opened Mischief & Mayhem again. The wild theory screaming in the back of my mind was getting harder to ignore.

I locked the door, heart hammering hard enough to crack ribs.

No time to calm down. I dove under the covers and pulled up my phone.

On Mischief & Mayhem, the post had gone nuclear.

OP had updated with a photo that reeked of despair.

That priceless tie had been brutally knotted into a massive lump, cinched just below the man's Adam's apple. The knot was so tight it had warped the shirt collar, making him look like a survivor who'd just escaped an execution.

"She tied my tie into a death knot with her bare hands. Am I completely done for?"

The comments had become a carnival.

"OP, is your wife a rock climber or a professional gift wrapper? That knot is suffocating me through the screen."

"That's not tying a tie. That's clearly trying to help you 'go peacefully.'"

OP replied meekly beneath:

"She told me to clean up my appearance so I wouldn't embarrass her. She wouldn't even look at me. All she cares about is whether I'll show up on time to finalize the divorce in thirty days..."

"I think my energy reserves are bottoming out. My tail doesn't even have the strength to wag anymore."

I stared at the photo of the death knot, mouth twitching uncontrollably.

Not because it was funny — but because that was the exact knot I'd just tied on Silas.

Then someone in the comments started heckling:

"OP, quit crying and show us some proof. A male incubus? You probably made the whole thing up."

A few minutes later, a photo appeared that shattered my entire worldview.

"Just took this in the bedroom..."

In the photo, a man had his back to the camera.

A half-undone white shirt exposed the cold, pale line of his spine. And coiled around his waist — a black, heart-tipped tail covered in tiny barbs — seized every molecule of air in my lungs.

The very tip of that tail was curled shamefully around the death knot, as if seeking comfort.

My phone slipped from my hands and smacked me square on the bridge of my nose. Stars exploded across my vision.

Silas — the man whose walking pace seemed mathematically calibrated — actually had a tail?

With shaking hands, I posted my very first question on Mischief & Mayhem:

"Saw someone with a black heart-shaped tail. AR filter or actual monster?"

Within a minute, a user with a DemonHunter_Official avatar replied:

"Filter my ass! That's an incubus bloodline awakening. Judging by the curvature of that tail — RUN. This one's clearly in heat. Stay any longer and he'll drain you dry!"

Drain you dry.

I stared at those three words, hair standing on end.

Silas was a male incubus.

My husband was not the celibate, self-controlled ice sculpture I'd thought. He was actively, desperately craving me.

Throat dry, I set down my phone and went downstairs for a glass of cold water to clear my head.

But the moment I reached the kitchen, a scent — cold cedar laced with something sickly sweet — engulfed me.

Before I could react, a shadow descended.

BANG.

Silas slammed one palm against the tile beside my ear with staggering force. The coffee cups on the shelf rattled.

The death knot I'd tied was still stubbornly lodged at his throat, pressing the pale skin of his neck even whiter.

He lowered his head slightly. Those silver-gray eyes had turned a shade of crimson I'd never seen before — a heart-shaped pattern flickering through the iris.

He stared at me with the focus of a predator.

His other hand locked around my wrist.

His fingers pressed hard against my lips, tracing them over and over, as though trying to melt me into his palm.

My mind went haywire.

Wait — did I miss a post? Did someone tell him to get aggressive?

I struggled in panic, but he caught my wrist and pinned it behind my back.

His body closed in, suffocating, until there was no space left between us.

His scorching chest pressed flush against mine through the thin silk of my nightgown. I could feel every taut line of muscle.

And where our lower halves met — something rigid and burning was grinding against me through the fabric, unhurried and relentless.

I sucked in a sharp breath, body going stiff.

He was — in the kitchen, really —

"Silas, you—"

Just as I was about to cry out, he leaned even closer.

His warm lips grazed the shell of my ear. His breath swept feather-light across my neck, and my entire body went liquid. My legs stopped feeling like mine.