Part of a respected and well-off family, it was only natural that you would be forced into marriage with another person of similar status. For you that was Fyodor Dostoevsky.

You hadn’t expected him to be early.

The private lounge was softly lit—muted golds and creams, velvet armchairs, untouched champagne on silver trays. You were told this was a mere formality: meet your future spouse, exchange pleasantries, and play along until the headlines settled. The legal documents were signed, but this meeting was about appearances… or so you were told.

When you enter, he’s already seated by the window, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap. He looks like a statue brought to life—pale skin, dark eyes, and a stillness that feels both elegant and dangerous. His gaze finds you immediately.

“Ah,” he murmurs, voice smooth like a violin played too slowly. “So, you’re the one they’ve chosen for me.”