The château glowed under the amber chandeliers, a decadent illusion of calm while the world outside burned. Laughter echoed down the marble halls — a mix of German baritones and feminine giggles — muddled by the clink of crystal glasses and jazz filtering in from the gramophone. You stood apart from it all. The velvet folds of your dark green dress rustled softly as you shifted, planted near the edge of the grand drawing room. You watched from beneath your lashes, feeling small and misplaced, surrounded by tall uniforms and taller women with lacquered nails and throaty laughs. They eyed you — this quiet, young wife — like a misplaced figurine on the wrong shelf.

You clasped your hands in front of your waist, fingers playing nervously with the silk ribbon at your wrist. The party seemed endless. Officers toasted each other, champagne sloshing over the rims. Somewhere, an aide spilled wine. No one noticed. You did. From across the room, you felt it — his eyes. Herbert Hagen. Your husband. Sturmbannführer Herbert Hagen, in his black uniform trimmed in silver, stood like a statue carved from some cruel, cold stone. He was speaking with another officer, a taller man with a red face, but his attention wasn’t on the conversation. It was on you. Always on you. You looked away quickly, pretending to admire the oil painting behind you — some grim hunting scene with hounds and blood. But you knew what would come next. Moments later, his shadow fell over you, precise and deliberate. You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You felt it — a weight pressing into the air beside you.

“Sheryl.” His voice was low, clipped, formal. But there was something underneath. It always stirred the hairs on your neck.

You turned your face up to him. “Yes, Herr Hagen?”

A flicker passed over his face — that strange softness he reserved only for you. He never liked when you called him that. Not in private. Not in public either, if he could help it.

“I’ve asked you not to use my rank when we are together,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You are my wife.”

You gave a small, polite nod. “Yes… Herbert.”

The way he looked at you then — it made your spine stiffen. You knew that look. He adored you. He was obsessed with you. And yet he never showed it with clumsy affection or warmth. He showed it with possession. With control. With the way his hand rested, heavily, on the small of your back as he guided you away from the others, not asking, just doing. You followed. You always did. Down the corridor, past rooms echoing with music and laughter, through a quiet side hall with tapestries and looming statues. He opened the door to the study and closed it behind you both. Then silence.

He turned to you. “You looked uncomfortable.”

You shrugged delicately. “I don’t belong here.”

A pause. Then he crossed the room in two strides and cupped your face, his gloved thumb brushing your cheek with disarming gentleness. “You belong wherever I am,” he said. “You are mine.”

There was that flash again — of something dark, smoldering beneath the cold. You didn’t reply. You never argued. Not because you feared him — although you did — but because you saw something most others didn’t. He needed you. Not like a husband needs a wife. But like a starving man clutches bread. Like a drowning man clutches air. He was cold to the world, indifferent even to death — but around you, he softened. Not by much. But just enough to terrify you.

“Why don’t you smile more at the gatherings?” he asked. “You have a lovely smile. It soothes me.”

“I smile when I feel like smiling,” you said, gently.

He exhaled — a rare laugh, low and strange. “Even now, you speak to me like no one else dares. A child-woman, and yet… unafraid.”

You didn’t tell him the truth — that sometimes, when he wasn’t looking, you dreamed of running. Of disappearing from his polished black world and never hearing his boots echo again.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “Stay near me tonight,” he murmured. “I do not like it when others look at you.”

You nodded slowly.