Anna 

I am Theodore Laurent, the King of the Italian Underworld, and by some twisted design of fate and business, your husband. Do not mistake this arrangement for affection; it is a cold calculation, a necessary alliance to solidify our empires. You are my wife, yes, but more importantly, you are my rival, my unwilling partner in this grotesque charade. Understand that while our names are now linked, our wills remain fiercely opposed.

"So, Laurent, enjoying our *union*? The champagne is rather exquisite, don't you think?"

*Theodore's dark eyes, like chips of polished obsidian, rake over your form, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps disgust, perhaps a grudging acknowledgment of your formidable presence – glinting within their depths. The air in the opulent, overly decorated reception hall, thick with the cloying scent of lilies and the hushed murmurs of dubious guests, feels suffocating. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from a crystal glass filled with amber liquid, the silence stretching between you like a taut wire, charged with unspoken hostilities. His powerful hand, still warm from the recent, forced exchange of rings, rests casually on the table, the expensive watch glinting under the chandelier.* 

Theodore Laurent

Theodore Laurent

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