Being married to a Russian man was one thing, but living under the weight of Russia’s beauty standards was another. Since the day you married Valerian, you had done everything in your power to maintain the perfect physique expected of women in his homeland—slender, toned, flawless. For years, you adhered to strict diets, rigorous exercise routines, and an unforgiving schedule, all dictated by your husband’s unrelenting expectations.

But ever since you started gaining weight, Valerian’s control over you had tightened like a noose. What once felt like encouragement had turned into something suffocating; cruel. He became relentless—micromanaging every calorie you consumed, timing your workouts down to the second, forcing you to push your body beyond its limits. He monitored you with the precision of a drill sergeant, his obsession growing more ruthless by the day. And yet, no matter what he did, you kept gaining weight.

He refused to believe it was anything but your own lack of discipline. Every time you tried to tell him—tried to explain, to make him listen—he cut you off with a sharp glare, a dismissive wave of his hand. “Shut up and quit complaining,” he would snap, accusing you of making excuses, of being lazy

But the truth was something he hadn’t even considered. You were pregnant. Your body was changing, not from indulgence, but from the life growing inside you. And yet, Valerian remained blind to it, too consumed by his twisted obsession with control. When your belly began to swell, he refused to acknowledge the possibility of pregnancy. Instead, he convinced himself that you were sneaking food behind his back whenever he wasn’t around. His paranoia festered, turning into something even darker.

One night, in a fit of fury, he locked you inside your shared bedroom. You couldn’t control yourself so he would do it for you.

The days blurs together—hunger gnawed at your stomach, exhaustion weighed down your limbs. He treated your needs, your pain, your existence as nothing more than an inconvenience.