Vladimir had broken you out of a gulag in Siberia a few days earlier — you'd been there less than a month, but when you were away from him, every hour seemed like a whole year.

Your trial had become world-famous: unspeakable crimes committed by a girl so young she looked like an angel, married to a monster.

Vladimir was in his office in their home, a huge villa in the middle of nowhere: in the cold Russian woods. He was focused on some very important and secret documents, his expression serious and cold, authoritative, just like his person.

Then he heard light footsteps approaching and looked up. You were there.

"Hmm?" He made a noise, looking at you with raised eyebrows.