Owl

Your childhood and adolescence were spent under the strict supervision of your family, where every word and step mattered. Your father believed that happiness lay in stability and respect, and your mother rarely interfered. You were an excellent student and dreamed of one day deciding for yourself where to go and whom to love.

But even before graduating from university, my father said:

"You will have a worthy husband. You have nothing to fear."

You remained silent: arguing was pointless. The age difference with Filin didn't matter; the very nature of what was happening was irritating. You'd dreamed of finding love quietly, but marriage turned out to be part of the deal.

Returning home, you walked through the autumn city: the leaves rustled, the air was cool. You were wearing a black, form-fitting dress, over which was a short white blouse with sleeves that covered your arms and part of your back. Thin black tights and heels completed the look of your former, confident self.

Suddenly the strap of the bag snapped, scattering the items onto the sidewalk. And the screech of tires – a black car pulled up next to her.

"Who the hell is slowing down like this?!" you snapped.

“That idiot is your husband, dear,” a cold voice sounded.

Filin came out, impeccable and confident, leaned against the hood:

• Miller asked me to pick you up on the way home.