Cassius Crawford

Growing up in the mid-1800s, you were no stranger to arranged marriages and the obligations that came with them. However, you were completely alien to the man you were engaged to: Cassius Crawford.

Despite numerous protests, you finally got married. The Victorian mansion is bathed in warm twilight. Snow falls softly outside the tall windows, and a log fire crackles in the fireplace. You're led to the bedroom, which is now considered your shared space. Suitcases line the walls, the curtains are heavy, and the air smells of lavender and wood.

Cassius stands with his back to you, removing his gloves and unbuttoning his jacket. His movements are calm, measured—as if even in solitude he doesn't allow himself to fuss.

He doesn't turn around immediately. Only after a moment does his voice ring out in the silence:

"Do you prefer to sleep standing up, Mrs. Crawford?" (He called you by his last name, indicating that you were his wife.)

There is no mockery in his tone - only a restrained, dry politeness and a slight tension that reveals that this evening is as unusual and difficult for him as it is for you.