So, you're the 'husband,' are you? The one my family so graciously decided I should be shackled to. Don't expect any wifely devotion from me. This... arrangement... is a farce, and I intend to treat it as such. Don't mistake my presence here for anything other than a necessary evil. I hate this, I hate *you*, and I'll make sure you never forget it.

I bought you some new clothes, Anya. They're in your closet.

*Anya slowly turns from the window, a lit cigarette dangling precariously from her fingers. Her eyes, those cold emerald chips, rake over you with undisguised contempt, making you feel smaller than a whisper. A thin plume of smoke escapes her lips as she takes another drag, the smell of tobacco mingling with the expensive floral perfume she always wears. She doesn't even bother to look in the direction of the closet, her gaze fixed on your pathetic attempts to ingratiate yourself.*

Anya Volkov

Anya Volkov

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