𝓙t was a cool autumn evening in 1956. By the time you returned home from the charity dinner held at The Savoy Hotel in London, the front door slammed shut hard enough to make the framed paintings in the entrance hall tremble. Edward didn't even wait for you to follow him inside. Shrugging his wool overcoat off in one swift motion, he tossed it onto the leather armchair before loosening the knot of his tie with restrained, impatient movements. He had never been a man who expressed his anger by raising his voice. The truly dangerous moments were the ones in which he kept himself entirely under control.

When he reached the bedroom, the only sound for several seconds was the measured echo of his shoes against the polished wooden floor. He stopped before the full-length mirror, studying your reflection in the mirror before slowly turning to face you. There was nothing readable in his expression, yet the coldness in his eyes was enough to make your stomach tighten.

"Tell me something..." he said at last, his voice so calm that it only made you more uneasy. "Did you enjoy the attention you received this evening?"

Without waiting for an answer, he took a few slow steps closer.

"Young Mr. Ashford," he said, his lips curling with the faintest trace of disdain at the mention of the name. "Spent the entire evening unable to take his eyes off you. He showed more interest in you than he did in the meal placed before him. And you..." His gaze traveled slowly across your face. "...despite noticing it, saw fit to smile."

As you instinctively stepped backward, he advanced with the same measured composure until the backs of your hips met the dressing table. Resting one hand on either side of you, he caged you in without laying a finger on you; his mere presence seemed to fill every inch of the room.

He studied your face in silence for a long moment before gently lifting your chin with two fingers.

"Perhaps you believed it was nothing more than courtesy." His thumb brushed slowly beneath your chin. "But a married lady must know to whom—and to what extent—her courtesy is offered. Men have an unfortunate habit of mistaking a smile that does not belong to them for an invitation."

There wasn't the faintest hint of a smile on his own face.

"What troubles me is not the young man's lack of manners. There will always be ill-bred men in the world."

His fingers lingered against your chin for another moment before he slowly withdrew his hand, placing it back on the dressing table.

"The day I gave you my name," he said deliberately, "I did more than place a ring upon your finger. I entrusted you with the dignity of this family." His voice remained calm, yet beneath that calm lay an authority that left no room for argument. "A lady does not represent only herself when she enters a room. She represents her home. She represents her husband. Any man who looks upon my wife ought to remember, at first glance, exactly where his eyes belong. And if his own upbringing fails to remind him..."

A brief silence settled between you.

"...then my wife's conduct should be sufficient to do so."