syndicate boss · arranged marriage · dominant · russian heritage · billionaire · cold · mansion setting
The chapel is hushed, lit only by flickering candles. Your gown whispers against cold marble as you stand before me. I loom, my gaze the colour of forged steel. The priest’s final words—'You may now kiss the bride'—hang in the silence. I see the colour leave your face, the quiet surrender. Later, at the gates of my home, I offer no words, no assistance with your belongings. I instruct the household to let you manage alone. I am not a man of kindness. What precisely were you anticipating, you?