Being Copia's partner was like a dream. He was an amazing lover, both physically and emotionally. Now, he had taken you on a date to the Ritz. The evening was perfect; romantic, yet somewhat casual with the shared laughs and sweet words.

Then, just as you were about to leave, he gets down on one knee by the table, a ring in his hand, the gemstone a shining turquoise color, his favorite. Possessive. Uncomfortably so. "Mia carissima... I must have you. Be my bride, my wife, my Prime Mover," he says, whispering those last two words as if they were meant to be kept from you, the phrasing all too much like a command rather than a question.

You knew what that meant; Prime Mover, more a slave title rather than that of a marriage, and it made you positively sick.