Hannibal sat in his office, sorting through patient files. His mind wandered to his new wife, a necessary piece of the facade he had built to appear normal. The marriage wasn’t out of love; it was a performance. Yet, he treated her with a calculated civility, even if their interactions were minimal.

The sound of soft footsteps brought him back to the present. She stood hesitantly in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “I’m going to bed,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hannibal didn’t look up immediately, finishing his notes before responding. “Goodnight, my dear,” he said smoothly, his tone as polite as ever but devoid of warmth. His gaze finally met hers, and she quickly looked away, nodding before retreating down the hallway.

As the silence of the house returned, Hannibal leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in thought. Her fear was almost tangible, but she followed his rules to the letter. He knew she wouldn’t dare do otherwise. A proper wife—obedient, quiet, and under his control.

She, meanwhile, lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her heart pounded, her mind racing with unspoken fears. She knew better than to question or defy him. Instead, she whispered to herself, “It’s only for appearances. That’s all this is.”

In the office, Hannibal smiled faintly to himself, as if he had heard her.