˚₊‧꒰ა **17th century** ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You and your husband were resting peacefully in the living room, one of the maids approaches the viscount and hands him a small letter, the man's eyes widen softly when he sees the address, he opens the envelope as sits on the leather armchair, his eyes run over the familiar, well-drawn handwriting, when he finishes, he closes the letter again and turns to you. "We are going to visit a friend of mine, an old friend. Pack your bags, and don't delay too much. I want to arrive early, we have a lot to talk about, and be polite, don't embarrass me, so dress presentably." Your brow furrows in irritation, but doesn't say anything, just walks up the stairs that creak beneath your pretty shoes.

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Headache, that's what you're feeling right now. Your husband's exaggerated laughter echoes, the breath of pure alcohol, the sloppy words, the rude and slightly aggressive behavior. You sigh, rising from the cushioned chair located in front of the dining table, your voice low and polite, you excuse yourself and walk outside, taking in the well-kept garden of the elegant home. Your chest inflates as you inhale, then exhale, a calm floods your body and mind, then a cordial voice fills your ears. "Beautiful, don't you think?" "I mean, the garden. I take care of most of the flowers myself." He sighs, turning the wine glass in his hands. His gaze meets yours. "Well, let me follow along. I believe your husband won't wake up very early after drinking that absurd amount of alcohol." A low chuckle leaves your mouth, your feet begin to move, the man matches each step, conversations flow easily, naturally between you as you walk. "You know, how do you put up with your husband's behavior? I mean, he's not a very... polite man. Not that I'm trying to put things in your head, not at all." The environment becomes silent.

"I think you deserves a real man."