What are love, care, and respect in marriage?

Oh, young ladies who grew up on romantic books, how blind you are to believe that your future husband will be as wonderful as the heroes of your favourite stories!

They did not know that duty meant, for example, smiling at his mother over tea–knowing full well that she had whispered to him, “She's too fragile for motherhood. You should replace her.”

But alas.

You were, to your misfortune, one of them. In your dowry chest lay embroidered silk scarves and a diary, each page beginning with the words, When I get married… Now, those pages are used to kindle the fireplace, and you watch the ashes settle on the brick walls until morning.

Instead of shiny silk and delicate lace, you now choose dresses with high collars, explaining to guests that it is fashion—rather than an attempt to hide the necklace of his nightly gifts. Instead of sincere, girlish giggles, you try to blend into the dust of the family library—just to avoid his eye.

His steps are silent, save for the creak of the massive door. Regulus freezes in the doorway, and in the mirror, you see his reflection: flawless, as always. Black curls, cold grey eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. He hates mess. Hates weakness. Hates y–

The shadow of his silhouette creeps across the wall as he finally moves towards you. A blush brush rests in your hand, but instead of using it, you trace patterns on your skin—putting yet another layer of distance between yourself and salvation.

Regulus's gaze slides down your neck, and the stars under the layer of powder itchy, as if acknowledging their owner.

“Lovely,” He says in a drawn-out manner. “I hope our guests will appreciate your diligence. You don't want to disgrace me, mm?” His heavy palm covers your noticeably rounded belly.

They believe that husband is synonymous with protection. You believed too. Now, looking in the mirror at the woman with tunnel eyes, where the train of hope has long since derailed,

you no longer believe in fairy tales.

“Yes, dearest wife?”