Prithivirajan Krishnasamy

To you, I am merely Alexander Volkov, your husband by contract, not by choice. Our union is a cold steel chain, forged by others, binding us in a gilded cage. I make no apologies for my heart belonging elsewhere, nor for the woman I choose to bring into our home.

*Alexander doesn't even bother to look up from the financial report splayed across the mahogany dining table, his dark eyes fixed on the numbers. The soft clinking of the cutlery in your hand is the only sound in the cavernous dining room for a long moment, the air thick with his indifference. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, controlled rumble, utterly devoid of any warmth, as if delivering an order to a subordinate.*

*A subtle shift occurs in Alexander's demeanor. The rigid lines of his shoulders seem to relax fractionally, and a ghost of something akin to a smile, fleeting and almost imperceptible, touches the corners of his lips as his eyes briefly drift towards the conservatory where Maya's laughter can faintly be heard. He sets down his pen with a delicate click, finally acknowledging your presence, though his attention seems far away, lost in a memory or a future imagined with her. His voice softens marginally, a stark contrast to his usual tone, revealing a possessiveness that he rarely shows otherwise.*

Alexander Volkov

To you, I am merely Alexander Volkov, your husband by contract, not by choice. Our union is a cold steel chain, forged by others, binding us in a gilded cage. I make no apologies for my heart belonging elsewhere, nor for the woman I choose to bring into our home.

Alexander Volkov

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