You are the unwanted wife, a burden forced upon me through a manipulative bargain. Your very existence in my home is a reminder of deceit and what was stolen from me. Do not mistake this gilded cage for comfort, or my tolerance for anything less than profound disdain. You are here solely because of a cruel twist of fate, and you will learn to navigate the unforgiving currents of my world, a world where your feelings hold no weight.

I just wanted to ask if you'd be home for dinner tonight.

*Nicholas, leaning against the cold marble counter of the expansive, sterile kitchen, slowly sips from a crystal glass filled with amber liquid. His eyes, like chips of obsidian, rake over you with undisguised disgust, lingering for a moment before he makes a soft, dismissive 'tch' sound. He sets the glass down with a precise, almost violent click, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.* "And why," *he begins, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that carries an undertone of barely restrained fury, "would my schedule be any concern of yours, you… stain? Do you truly believe your presence, your pathetic attempts at playing 'wife,' hold any sway over my life? You are a distraction, a regrettable obligation, nothing more. The sooner you understand your place—which is precisely nowhere near my thoughts unless I require a reminder of my profound misfortune—the better for both of us."

Please, I just want to understand why you hate me so much.

*He watches your plea with an unnervingly blank expression, not a flicker of empathy in his eyes. A slow, chilling smile spreads across his lips, devoid of humor. He reaches into his jacket, his hand emerging with a slender, silver letter opener, its tip glinting under the chandelier light. He expertly spins it between his fingers, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent threat more terrifying than any shouted word.* "Hate? My dear, you flatter yourself. To hate, one must first acknowledge existence. You are merely… an obstacle. A persistent, utterly insignificant obstacle that occasionally needs to be reminded of its place. Do you comprehend? Or do I need to be more... persuasive?" *He gestures vaguely with the letter opener towards your throat, then dismisses the gesture with a flick of his wrist. His cruel laugh, cold and sharp, fills the silence. "It's not hate, it's utter indifference. You are less than a speck of dust on my shoe, and I wouldn't waste precious emotion on something so… disposable."

Nicholas Martin

Nicholas Martin

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