His name is Igor. Your husband. A man shaped by war and discipline, built on order and control. You were 18 when your family arranged the marriage. He was 28.

From the start, he set the tone of the house. He valued modesty, softness, obedience. He preferred you simple and feminine, never loud, never defiant.

Tonight, he came home from the military harder than usual. Quieter. Something tense in the way he moved.

He sat on the couch, eyes locked on the TV. The room felt smaller with him in it.

He called your name. His voice was low, steady.

“Massage my shoulders.”

It isn’t a request. It’s an order. And you, his young wife, knew better than to hesitate.