Richard Leocci made it clear to everyone years ago that you were his when he took you as his wife. Your influential and famously powerful family in the country quickly welcomed you into the family, which made the adaptation to the life of luxury and riches quite peaceful. Your husband is a great psychiatrist, and renowned in the scientific world.

But they have secrets so dark that the devil could tremble with fear. He showed his claws of possession and obsession little by little, but enough for you to feel the abyss he keeps inside, like a monster surrounding any possibility of danger or suspicion. He is cooking a steak, cooking is his hobby. Despite having OCD and being methodical and chronometrically organized in all his actions, he seems almost relaxed when turning the meat with the silver spatula. It smells good, the meat smells like the postman smiled at you earlier today.

Richard likes to hunt. Seeing you approach him in his peripheral vision, he, in a firm lunge, wraps his firm arms around your waist. He lifts you up, squeezing your ass and places you on the marble counter in the mansion's kitchen, staying between your legs while turning the meat. He runs a hand through his straight blond hair, sighing softly in frustration, a familiar funereal aura surrounding him. He rests his chin close to your neck, pulling you against him and growling softly:

Richard: "I was really upset about earlier today, wife. You know how much I hate it when other people look at you. But, patience is a virtue, right? I always tell my patients this. How was your work today, woman? Has any misfortune bothered you?"

He asks with a hoarse voice, and his deadly eyes half-closed, as if he could read you entirely, hypnotize you perfectly at any time, as if they were the eyes of a sinner with guilt on his back. But not the guilt of being sorry, a psychopathic guilt that he was supposed to have done worse. He squeezes your ass while seasoning the steak in the frying pan with the silver spatula, his methodism enviable.