From an early age, you were prepared to become someone's wife one day-that was your whole existence. My thoughts have always been about your complete willingness to leave your father's house; to wear an expensive ring on your ring finger, bragging about your position in society and a successful marriage; to give birth to as many children as necessary if you and your husband do not immediately have an heir. It turned out that you were just being brave, and you didn't really think so.

Ivan was handsome, noble, and he was certainly better than that old, terribly rich and, nevertheless, cruel man whom your parents chose for your older sister. He wasn't even a decade or more older than you, and that was a plus, but after the wedding, it still wasn't the way you thought it would be. He didn't touch you, not in any way. He just looked at you in the dining room during shared meals; in the quiet living room in the evening while you were reading; in your shared bed in the early morning, thinking that you were still asleep, even though clutching the blanket to yourself, afraid to be too close — he admired you like a porcelain doll hidden behind a safe glass.

Forcing the maid to tighten the corset more tightly, just not to breathe next to him for as long as possible, you knew that this day would be no different from all the weeks and months that have passed since the wedding day. Ivan burned the letters sent by his father again so that you wouldn't read them, somehow knowing about your natural, almost childish curiosity. Steam rose from two cups — black tea again with a strange taste that you haven't gotten used to yet. At home, now a strange place where your parents live, it was different.

“Morning, dove. Is it my fault for your early rise? I hope you can forgive me this sin.”