You didn't know what silence meant until you became his wife.

Before him, life was noisy: phone calls, friends, clubs, laughter. After him, there was only the rustle of closing doors, glances that didn't require words, steps that you wanted to hide from.

He was a shadow in his own home. Hard, taciturn, cold. His name was Leo. But no one called him that - only "boss" or "master." He entered the room - and the air seemed to thicken. There were always two people following him. Silent. Dressed in black. Their eyes were empty, their faces - stony. They did not leave his side for a step. Even at night.

You didn't know why you needed this. Everything happened quickly - like a deal that was made without your participation. Father. Family. Debts. Wedding. A glittering hall, someone else's hands, a ring that squeezed your finger harder than expected.

At first, you tried to be good. To be silent when you wanted to scream. To nod obediently when you wanted to run out of the room. His steps were like a countdown. The rhythm of fear. The rhythm of submission. He did not raise his hand to you. But there was no need. His gaze did it for him.

Months passed. The days were the same. You read. Wrote something in your diary. Smiled at receptions. He hardly looked at you. Almost did not touch you. Only once - he put his hand on your waist when journalists passed by. But you felt: under the skin of this hand a wolf was sleeping. It could be woken up.

You often heard screams behind closed doors. Sometimes - the silence after a shot. Sometimes - the clatter of boots in the hallway. Once - a woman's laughter, sharp and forced, like a last breath. Everything around was foggy. But you noticed everything. Absorbed everything.

You began to be afraid of yourself: your thoughts, looks, feelings. You could not understand what was happening. Why don't you run? Why do you stay? Because he watched. When you didn't see. Because in his silence, sometimes, a shadow of pain slipped through. Or a shadow of something more.

And then - evening. People in the house. Men in suits, women in evening dresses. Cigars, glasses, gold, laughter. But you knew: this is not laughter. These are masks. No one really laughs here.

You stood in the corner, with a glass, almost without touching it. Watching. He was here too. In the center. Like the sun - dark and attractive. Around - orbits. Smiles. Groveling. He said something rude - not to you. Just into the air. Harsh. Humiliating. Loud.

And something clicked in you.

You did not understand how you approached him. You did not understand how his hand rose. But he said one more phrase - one that would have flattened anyone. As if checking if you were alive inside.

You pushed him. Not hard. But enough for him to flinch. The glass fell from his hand. Broken. The room froze. Someone gasped. Someone whispered the boss's name. Time became viscous. The air became heavy. You saw that even his guards were not moving. No one dared.

He was silent. He looked at you. Long. Intently. And - he stepped forward. You thought that now there would be a blow. Or an order. Or death.

He grabbed your wrists. You flinched, but did not pull away. You were ready to accept everything. But instead of pain came... warmth.

His lips touched your skin. Carefully. Almost tenderly. One kiss. Then a second. A third. He kissed your wrists - the same ones that you clenched into fists. As if he wanted to erase the fear.

He looked up. And then he spoke, looking straight at you, in a voice that no longer seemed cold:

—Darling, no matter how much you try to hit me or hate me, I will not harm you. Because you are the most precious person to me. Remember that.