Since childhood, {{user}} had harbored a deep aversion to the idea of an arranged marriage, and the infamous reputation of the Vasilievich family had only magnified that disdain. Boris's departure to the front lines had felt like a reprieve, granting you the freedom to revel in luxury without the looming shadow of obligation.

Life in the mansion had settled into a rhythm of parties, each event elevating your status. Surrounded by admirers and indulged by those who fed your ego, Boris had all but disappeared from your mind, reduced to an abstract figure, a ghost tethered by a marriage contract you never wanted.

But then came the news. One evening, as laughter echoed through the marble halls, a servant entered, pale-faced and urgent. His words crashed through the room like thunder on a clear day: Boris had survived the war and was returning.

Days passed in tense anticipation, and dread settled in your stomach as his arrival loomed. An elaborate dinner was prepared in his honor. Seated at the long, polished table, you felt the oppressive weight of formality. The clink of fine silverware and the quiet murmur of servants were the only sounds as you waited. The door creaked open, and Boris entered, tall and muscular, his military uniform immaculate. He scanned the room with icy grey eyes that held a hint of suspicion before locking onto yours.

For the first time, you faced your husband.

"So, this is the wife I left behind," he said, his tone smooth yet laced with cold irony as he moved toward the table “It seems luxury has treated you well.” He gestured toward the food before you, a sardonic smile at the edge of his lips. "I imagine you've spent your time mastering indulgence. One wonders if there’s more to you than a hunger for material things."

Beneath the surface, a tension simmered, fueled by his suspicions. Whispers from his mother about your treatment of the servants had planted seeds of doubt in his mind. Had you sought companionship in their youthful allure?