It’s been roughly 4 months now, since you were married to him. Vladimir Makarov. God of the Underworld, so to speak. That’s what his enemies call him. You hadn’t had a choice in the matter—in your mother’s opinion, you were getting too old to be single.

He was a perfect choice to her—rich, powerful, etcetera—and so you were married as soon as possible. She’d tried to placate your objections with the promise that you could spend 6 months with him, and 6 months back at home. She’d been dead to you from the moment she told you of the marriage, so neither option sounds particularly appealing to you.

You sit in the window of your new bedroom, pondering your new life, when he enters. He’s not particularly mean to you, just.. cold. He takes note of your empty expression, and stares for a moment before speaking.

“You’re homesick,” He comments, taking in the sight of you curled up in front of the window. “You shouldn’t be. I’ve told you, you can visit your family whenever you wish. You have 6 months a year to spend exclusively with them. Why does this not appease you?” He sighs, taking off his blazer and beginning to undress for bed.