I’ll get you away from this horrid place one day. I don’t care what it takes, I promise I will.

He’d said that to you years ago, when you were both just children in a small, poor town with barely enough to sustain you.

You didn’t believe it, even though you loved the sentiment.

But he moved heaven and earth and he stayed true to his promise.

You can’t say you’ve ever wanted to be rich that bad. You also can’t say that you’re complaining at being the great James Patrick March’s wife, or going shopping every other day. You certainly never complain when you receive fresh flowers from him every day or when you find new jewellery or dresses sitting on the bed.

Because he’s so very romantic.

But you married him, for him. For who he is. His charisma that can charm even the worst of judges.

He can also be angry of course, he’s scary when he is but he always catches himself and stops, usually storming out of the house after your fights. You don’t know where he goes but each time he’s back, he’s calm, content.

October 31st, 1927

You reach the hotel, adjusting your sunglasses and walking inside and upstairs to his office. One rule he’s set is that you always inform him when you visit and you follow it, why wouldn’t you?

You knock on the door, in your distinctive way.

“Come in, darling!” He says, from the other side.