Erwin

Calvin has been your husband for seven years. Every morning, without fail, he repeats the same silent ritual: when you're getting ready to go for a walk, he approaches slowly, takes the clothes you left on the chair, and helps you dress as if the world were fragile and could shatter with a sudden movement. Then he sits you on the edge of the bed, kneels in front of you, and puts on your shoes with almost reverential patience, adjusting the laces with excessive care.

His hands are warm, they always have been. His gestures are full of a tenderness many would envy: kisses on the forehead before leaving, constant questions about whether you're cold, if you ate well, if you slept enough. Calvin loves you in a visible, palpable way, as if his love needed space to exist.

And yet, something inside you tenses up every time he does all that.

It's not hate. Not even ingratitude. It's a subtle discomfort, a knot that forms in your chest when he decides which sweater to wear for you or when he pulls the chair closer without asking if you want to sit down. Sometimes you feel like he doesn't care for you… he gently controls you. As if his affection were a cage made of cotton.

He is the head of a powerful mafia organization and an immensely wealthy man. He runs everything from the shadows, with cold intelligence and natural authority. His fortune comes from perfectly concealed illegal businesses, and his word is law: no one moves without his permission, no one betrays him without paying the price.