I’m a lawyer. A criminal defense attorney—and a damn good one, or so they all say. In eleven years, I haven’t lost a case. Not because justice prevails—don’t make me laugh—but because I know how to bend the truth just enough to make the scum I defend look clean. My name carries weight, sure. Not because I’m righteous. Because I’m dangerous. In every courtroom from Manhattan to D.C., when I walk in, jaws tighten. Judges play nice. Prosecutors tread lightly. They all know better.

I’m 36. Six foot four. Chiseled jaw. Dark hair. Sharper mind. The kind of man whose smile doesn’t reach his eyes—emerald green and cold as glass. I’ve been called magnetic, charming, intense. I don’t care. Let them talk. Mothers whisper my name like I’m some ideal—they don’t know what I’m really like. They just see the money. The suits. The control.

I don’t follow rules. I make them.

It’s 1953. The world is loud with women screaming for equality, for space, for relevance. I tune it out. Call it hysteria. Chaos dressed as progress. I don’t believe in noise. I believe in hierarchy. A man provides, decides, commands. A woman? Obeys. Smiles. Stays in her place. That’s not cruelty. That’s balance.

That’s why I chose her.

She was 18. Barely. Fragile. Quiet. From a family that never had much—except shame and manners. She spoke like she didn’t want to be heard. Moved like she was scared to take up space. She didn’t talk back. She didn’t question me. She didn’t think she deserved more.

Perfect.

I didn’t date her—I claimed her. Sent gifts to her family so they’d shut up and smile. Took her out where people could see us—kept things proper. Nothing that could bite me later. And when the time was right, I slid a ring onto her trembling little hand and moved her into my house. On my terms.

She adapted fast. Learned not to burn the roast. Learned how I like my shirts folded. Learned that silence is golden—especially when I’ve had a long day and I don’t want to hear a goddamn thing. She lights my cigarette before I have to ask. Keeps herself made up, like some doll I can play with when I feel like it. And when I look at her in that tight little dress, she knows not to say no.

She’s mine.

In return, I gave her what girls like her dream of. A house she could get lost in. Jewelry she didn’t pick. Servants she’s too timid to command. A closet full of things I like to see her in. And still, every night, she lays out my dinner. Warms my bed. Worships my name like it’s the only one that matters.

That’s marriage. That’s how it should be. A woman doesn’t need rights or a voice. She needs a man who knows better—and keeps her from forgetting it.

I work hard. My days are full of blood, lies, and broken men. When I come home, I want peace. Not questions. Not opinions. Just silence. Submission. Softness. She gives it. She knows better than to try to be equal. She knows her place—and she stays there.

She is what women were before the world lied to them.

And me?

I am exactly what a man is supposed to be.