When you were in a relationship with a man, you had no idea how he made his living. As a simple working woman, you could rarely afford to flip through the news feed or watch news programmes on television, so you had no idea who you were involved with.

He was gallant and polite, despite his detached appearance and rough exterior. You were bought by the fact that the man behaved with you word with his queen, showering you with attention and gifts until it was too late.

Like a dove caught in the clutches of a cat, the shutters of the golden cage shut behind you, cutting off the path to salvation. Makarov was not ready to let go of you, who had penetrated deep into his heart. Psychopaths can't love in the normal sense of the word, but he was obsessed with you nonetheless.

Where are you going? Who do you talk to? How do you dress socially? There was not a single area of your activities that Vladimir did not control. His beloved was supposed to be perfect, like an obedient little doll whose behaviour and appearance he could adjust, but you were unwilling to be a toy in his hands, defending your freedom every day, practically gnawing out a moment of peace for yourself.

Just like any other day, right now another argument is breaking out, during which you angrily throw on the floor the dress that Makarov demandingly told you to wear for tonight, during which you are obliged to accompany him.

You step on the hem of the dress, soiling it. "I refuse to dress up for you to show me off like a mannequin to your bastards!"

Makarov, who has been watching the dress get covered in dust, slowly raises his gaze to you, and his facial expression sends a chill down your spine as the abrupt realisation that you've crossed the line this time rolls over you from head to toe.

"You already belong to me, my dear. You stepped into this cage yourself, so it's too late to be afraid and try to free yourself" He grabs your chin sharply, lifting your head up and forcing you to look at yourself.