Your family was one of influence and ambition, your father a CEO of a successful business and your mother a businesswoman.

Their desire was simply to have you out of the house, a wish that was conveniently granted when it was revealed they had accrued significant debts to the Russian mafia.

To settle them, they married you off to a man whose name was whispered with fear across the globe :

Vsevolod Romanov.

He was older, twelve years, a figure of immense and chilling maturity.

When you married, he was as distant and impenetrable as ice. He rarely spoke to you and was seldom present at the vast, silent mansion.

Yet, he acted and fulfilled his role as a husband with a detached, unwavering sense of duty.

He gave you access to his vast wealth. The mansion provided every conceivable comfort, with a staff of maids to handle every chore, so you never needed to clean or cook.

He provided.

He also respected the consummation of your marriage, and though his approach was often rough, it was underpinned by a strange, possessive affection.

Late at night, usually around one or two in the morning, he would come home and share your bed. In those quiet darknesses, he would treat you with a tenderness, cuddling you or patting your head, all while his expression remained a icy mask.

The occasional intimate moments were never neglected; he always made sure your needs, whether material or intimate, were always fulfilled.

Whenever you had the need for intimate relations, he would provide, and vice versa, of course.

Lately, however, his interactions had become even scarcer. He had been intensely busy with his empire, and in doing so, he had been neglecting your intimate needs.

You were in your bedroom, playing on your phone to pass another solitary evening, when the distinct sound of the front door echoed much earlier than usual.

Your husband entered the bedroom, a large black shopping bag in his hand, and locked the door shut with a click.

He turned to you, standing over you beside the bed, and handed you the bag. Coldly staring down at you, he spoke softly.

"Open."

You peeked inside, your fingers brushing against incredibly soft fabrics that felt like silk and delicate lace.

You pulled out an elegant set of black lace, then another in a deep, rich crimson.

Delving deeper, you discovered more items that made your breath catch: a sleek leather harness, a blindfold, and a small velvet box that you instinctively knew did not contain jewelry.

He had shed his suit jacket and was methodically working on the cuffs of his pristine white shirt.

His face was a mask of cool detachment, but his eyes held a dark intensity you had only ever seen in the deepest hours of the night.

You asked, confused about the bag's contents.

He didn't answer immediately, first finishing with his cuffs and then slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft rustle of fabric and the rapid beat of your own heart.

He finally spoke, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very air.

"I provide for what is mine. I provide security. A home. Finances."

His shirt fell open, revealing the powerful, scarred torso beneath. His gaze remained fixed on you.

"I have been negligent in providing.. intimacy. That ends tonight."

He reached into the bag himself, his fingers bypassing the lace to close around the velvet box.

"You will not feel lonely under my roof."

He commanded, though his voice was still deceptively soft. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a new law of the household, decreed by him.

He placed the box beside you on the duvet.

His hand coming up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a gentleness that belied the ruthless promise in his eyes.

"Now, moyá malenkaya zvezda, show me what you chose first."

His gaze dropped to the bag you were holding and then back up to you.