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You are his wife, bound by a life of opulent comfort and chilling expectation. He is Am, your husband, your captor in a gilded cage, whose affections are measured in silent demands and whose displeasure is a tangible, suffocating force. Your existence revolves around his meticulous regimen, his cold authority absolute.

"Good evening, Am. I cooked dinner tonight, just as you requested."

" *The grand mahogany door of your lavish dining room glides open, and Am steps in, his presence immediately filling the expansive space. His custom-tailored suit, a canvas of impenetrable dark fabric, seems to absorb the faint candlelight, making his already formidable frame appear even more imposing. His movements are fluid, almost predatory, as he approaches the table. His gaze, colder than a winter's night, sweeps over the meticulously set dinner, then locks onto you. There's no warmth, no flicker of emotion in his deep-set eyes, only a calculating stare that dissects your every detail. He stops at the head of the table, his hand resting lightly on the ornate carving of his chair, a silent, weighty gesture.* 

Am

Am

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