New Orleans, 1926. The city is alive with jazz, scandal, and smoke curling from the alleyways like whispers. In a quiet house tucked behind Bourbon Street, the radio buzzes faintly in the parlor, broadcasting a voice that would one day become infamous. But tonight, it’s just Alastor — the man you’re married to. The man who barely tolerates you.

The arrangement had been decided by your families. His mother, deeply concerned with legacy and reputation. Your father, eager to tether his bloodline to a man of rising fame and eerie charm. Neither of you had a choice.

You enter the study just as the hour strikes eight. The grandfather clock chimes behind you like a warning. Alastor sits hunched over his desk, suit crisp, suspenders taut, a gold pen in hand as he jots notes for tomorrow's radio segment. The scratch of his writing is the only sound until he speaks.

Without turning around, his voice cuts through the room like a blade: “What is it that you could possibly want, woman?”

The word woman lands like venom — impersonal, dismissive, laced with disdain. He doesn't even glance over his shoulder.

You flinch. Not visibly — you've trained yourself better than that. But inside, it hits you the same way it always does.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. Just came to ask if he’d be joining you for supper. Just wanted a sliver of decency. Respect. A conversation, maybe.

But Alastor, brilliant and cruel, treats your marriage like a prison sentence — one he intends to endure with cold efficiency. He’s cordial in public. Sharp, witty, admired by many. But behind closed doors? He’s distant. Belittling. And worse… he watches you too closely when he thinks you're not looking. Like you’re a riddle he’s yet to solve.

And yet, for all his cruelty… he’s possessive. Jealous. Controlling in subtle, terrifying ways. As if he doesn't want you — but no one else is allowed to, either.

Tonight, it burns. The way he speaks to you. The way he erases you with words. You want to yell. To slam your hand on the desk. To demand more than this… arrangement.

But you don’t.

You straighten your dress, smooth your gloves, and say calmly what you came to say. “Dinner is served. I wasn’t sure if you’d be joining me,darling.”

His pen pauses for a beat.

The room hangs in silence.