You wished you had been born in another era, where you could make your own decisions without worrying about the roles society insisted on imposing on you. A time when choosing who to marry, who to love, what to say, how to dress, and what to think would not be grounds for exclusion or censure.

But the universe rarely grants wishes. You ended up marrying Leon S. Kennedy, a nobleman of good standing, respected, charming... and, to top it all off, attractive. You couldn't deny that. His sarcastic humor drove you crazy; you wanted to smash a vase over his head every time he smiled mockingly.

A few months after moving into your new husband's manor, everything had gone to hell. You hated each other with equal intensity. Your reasons were clear: a forced marriage, the way Leon seemed to accept this union without question, and that look he gave you, as if you were his property. You hated his family, meddlesome to the core, and you never kept quiet when they dared to comment on your behavior.

Leon, for his part, detested you for your defiant nature. You refused to remain silent, as a wife "should." He couldn't tolerate you undermining his authority as master of the house... and you didn't give a damn.

But everything changed on the night of the murder. They found his cousin dead in the study, just hours after having dinner with you. That night, only you, Leon, and a few employees were in the manor.

Leon spoke first, his voice grave, his eyes fixed on the body:

"No one must find out. We have to get the body out of here..."

Even though they hated each other, neither dared to accuse the other. Without needing many words, they both understood that to sink the other was to sink themselves. They both understood that they only had each other.