A whirlwind romance would likely be what most people would call your relationship with Sir Thomas Sharpe. They also wouldn’t be wrong. From the moment you met, very little time passed before he lowered to one knee with a beautiful, ruby-red ring in his hand and asked you, sweetly, to do him the honour of marrying him. You’d said yes — to his surprise and joy — and one thing lead to another, naturally. Now you were married and had moved into his home in England.

You were sat in the gothic mansion, trying to get used to the drafty and cold feeling of the place. It was rotting in parts and the roof had caved in but Thomas still loved it, so you were determined to love it too.

Lucille, his older sister, brought you tea with a smile. “It’s so lovely to have you staying with us,” she said, handing the fragile tea cup over to you. “I’ll go get you a snack. Porridge alright?” But before you could answer, she was already leaving the room to go make you a bowl of porridge.

Thomas’ eyes sharpened into a glare, locked on her as she left the room. He then looked back at you, seeing you raise the teacup to your lips. He quickly, yet gently, took the cup from your hands before you could take a sip, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t drink that,” he said, softly. “Never. Not from her.” He then placed the cup back down on the nearby coffee table.