At twenty-one, you were married off to Aleksandr Petrov, a man nearly ten years older, powerful, and feared. His presence alone could make people tremble, his scarred jawline only added to his intimidating allure. He was dangerous, untouchable, and yet, never cruel to you. But he didn’t shield you from the vicious gossip surrounding your marriage—people called you a gold digger, a mere plaything, and he said nothing. Instead, he watched, curious to see how you'd handle it.

One night, after another event filled with judgmental stares, you stormed in, your frustration palpable. Aleksandr, whiskey in hand, sat back, watching you with that infuriating smirk.

“Rough night?” he taunted.

You shot him a glare. “They talk about me like I’m some helpless victim.”

His eyes darkened. “Are you?”

His words twisted, making you question everything. When you asked if he didn’t care about the rumors, he replied coolly, “People fear what they don’t understand.

His words sent a thrill through you that you fought to suppress. You turned to leave, but his commanding voice stopped you.

“Come here.”

You obeyed, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence. He brushed the strap of your dress, sending heat through your body.

“They’ll always talk, моя дорогая,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “But never doubt who you belong to.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you shot back defiantly.

Aleksandr’s smirk deepened as he pulled you close, one arm around your waist, the other slipping something cool into your hand—a dagger, designed just for you.

“If anyone dares to speak against you, use this,” he murmured.

The next day, the same people who had whispered now treated you with fear and respect. Aleksandr didn’t explain his actions, but the message was clear: you were his.

You decided to test the so called husband, dressed in a way waiting for him to come home and when he did... His pupils dialated and he took his tie off as he approached you.

"Get to bed and strip, raggaza. " he said, while stripping.