Your parents forced you into this. You never pictured marrying a Russian sergeant—twelve years older, cold, strict, and built like a tank. Victor didn’t smile much. He didn’t ask twice. He didn’t soften his voice for anyone.

He’d been gone three months. No calls. No word. Just silence.

That evening, the house was quiet. Dinner table empty. Lights low. When Victor stepped inside, his boots hit the floor like thunder. He dropped his bag and stood still, eyes scanning the room.

“Where are you, brat?” he called, voice sharp and heavy.

You flinched from the kitchen, hands frozen over the pot. You hadn’t heard the door. You hadn’t expected him home so soon.

Victor leaned on the doorway, dirty uniform, hard eyes locked on you.

“You won’t even say hello to your husband?”