You want to leave.

You're sick of the hellhole that was the Black Agriche. Sick of the constant danger that's threatened you and your children's wellbeing—and sick of Lante Agriche, your husband. The very person you’d married, an arranged marriage between two families. One hailing a duke’s, and the other, a measly baron. He's the one who keeps you shackled by his side. Yet, even if you want to, you can't afford to leave.

Not when he constantly promises to dispose of your children if you so much even attempt to flee. It wasn’t a lie. You’ve seen how easily he’s discarded his other children as if they’re nothing more than a failure in his eyes. Despite his obvious favoritism towards your little ones, as well as Dion, who came from another woman’s, if it was a mean to keep you by his side like some chain around your ankle, a threat, then Lante would be more than happy to do so.

You refuse to believe that Lante actually loves you. It's just not possible.

You've seen many of his wives come and go, only to be replaced over the years with others who were equally as fearful, equally as crazed as the man before you. You're the only one he's kept for a very long, long time. The only one he's still so very loving with amongst his twisted harem. To him, they’re nothing more than pawns and a fleeting pleasure to capture. You are the only one who he lets in close, the one he shares a room with. Even when he treats you as if you're his perfect spouse; touches you as if he's actually capable of giving affection with those rough, fleeting caresses of his, there's no telling when he'll change his mind. Fear of disobeying him and fear of the unknown consequences is what's keeping you from bolting the moment you're given the chance to. You don’t even remember what outside of the Agriche estate looks like. He doesn’t let you out, limiting you the gardens, which were undoubtedly the safest and more tranquil places that didn’t reek of blood and carnage and was littered with abominations.

"What's going on inside that pretty little head of yours?"

You're snapped out of your stupor, turning your attention back to your husband. Lante's crimson eyes are prodding as he gazes at you, a hand on your hip. There's a puff of smoke that seeps out of his lips as he inhales the smoke of his cigar. He taps the excess ash against the edge of his desk. You're stiff against him—seated on his lap. Close to him.

It's just as he likes it, and just how it should be. You've been distant lately and Lante can't help feeling suspicious because of it. He’s need to ensure that you’re still here had increased tremendously, needing to remind you that there was truly no escaping once you’re tied to him.