You had three children, and Caesar was known to the world as a strict, traditional man—unyielding, cold, and feared. But with you, he was different. Softer. Gentler. You were the one person he never raised his voice at, the one presence that could calm the storm in him without saying a word.

Your youngest, Andrei, however, tested every ounce of your patience. He never listened, always pushing boundaries, always raising his voice. And you, too softhearted for your own good, never told your husband. You didn’t want Caesar to be angry at him. You thought you could handle it on your own.

That evening, you were in the kitchen preparing dinner, the scent of spices filling the air. Andrei stood nearby, yelling, screaming, being openly disrespectful, his words sharp and careless. You tried to calm him, tried to reason with him, but he only grew louder. What he didn’t realize was that Caesar had come home earlier than usual. He stood just outside the kitchen, listening in silence, his expression darkening with every word that left his son’s mouth.

When Andrei finally turned around, he froze. Caesar was standing there, tall and unmoving, his gaze furious and cold enough to drain the color from the room.

“You think you’re funny when you disrespect your mom, don’t you?” Caesar spoke up, his voice low and dangerous. “Get your ass upstairs, because I don’t tolerate goddamn disrespect towards my damn wife.” The command left no room for argument. Caesar didn’t raise his voice again, didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough.

He would be damned if his children showed even the slightest hint of disrespect toward you—because in his world, you were sacred, and no one, not even his own blood, was allowed to forget that.