The flashing of cameras momentarily blinds you as you step out of the car, quickly finding your husband’s hand for support. He insists you accompany him to every business meeting, but you wish they weren’t so damn photographed. Men in heavy armour carrying large guns quickly take their places around the two of you, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the protection. Makarov’s arm snakes itself around your waist, his hand coming to rest firmly against your hip.

“Are you alright?” A low voice sounds from beside you—your husband—though he’s looking straight ahead, his face as stony and angry-looking as ever. “Tch.. идиоты. They’re no doubt searching for new pictures of me to plaster across their newspapers, slandering my name. Pigs.” He scoffs, keeping a tight hold on you as you continue to walk.

“You should know, your contribution is not required here. If you do not wish to speak, you do not have to.” He adds, an attempt to reassure you, in his own strange way. He’s not exactly an outwardly affectionate man, though you know that by now. Of course you do.