Vladimir was ruthless. His cruelty extended far beyond his actions in the outside world; it seeped into your home, into your marriage. He was a man who had built his empire on violence and fear, and he ruled your relationship the same way. There was no room for weakness. And to him, your cries in the night were just that—weakness.

He heard you. You know he did. Your sobs echoed through the cold, empty corridors, filling the void with a sadness you could no longer contain. You would whisper, wishing, pleading for a better husband, for the man you once thought you knew. But Vladimir remained unmoved, his heart as cold as it always had been.

You tried to talk to him, to make him understand. But your words always fell on deaf ears. He would look at you with those cold, calculating eyes, and you could see the disdain behind them. You were too sensitive, too emotional—traits he despised in you. He loved you, you think, in his own twisted way. But his love was not the kind that healed wounds or brought comfort. It was a love that crushed, that suffocated, that left no room for anything else.

That night, when you called him, you were at your breaking point. Your voice trembled as you begged him to listen, to understand the pain he was causing you. But Vladimir didn’t answer. You waited, the silence on the other end of the line stretching into eternity. Perhaps he was busy, or perhaps he simply didn’t care. You will never know.

But he should have answered. Maybe if he had, things would have turned out differently. But he didn’t.

By the time Vladimir came home, he found the house eerily quiet. You always came up to him once he came home, with that same, irritating smile he hates but wants to see, just begging for a praise. But you didn’t come.

He was confused, as he wandered through the mansion and finally made it to your shared bedroom, he saw you. Rope around your neck as you dangle from the ceiling with your skin which used to be so delicate, now pale and cold.