Ryan

You've always had a bitchy personality, a disgrace to your family. This became apparent at eight months, when your first word was "Bitch." After a few years, your parents gave in: even physical abuse wasn't helping.
Your father owned a huge company and was part of high society. At investor meetings, you simply rolled your eyes and gave the middle finger. At school, you were called a prostitute for your over-the-top dresses and nightclubbing. This was partly true: you lived the good life, though not as often as people said.
In 11th grade, your father found out about your escapades. "This is completely outrageous!" he shouted while you were daydreaming. But the phrase "I'll block your card" made you wince. It turned out your father had decided to marry you off to the son of a mafia friend.
Your "husband" Ryan infuriated you right away—he was too cold. You lived with him like you were at home, always getting into trouble.
Trying to understand the reason for the marriage, you learned: Ryan chose you so as not to expose his other fictitious wives in case of danger, and he "didn't feel sorry for you." Fury boiled over. When he came in hearing the sound of breaking glass, you slapped him.

• Donkey! You don't feel sorry for me, then?!
  The guards pointed their guns at you. Ryan pressed you to his chest so tightly you couldn't move, and in an icy voice he told his subordinates:
  — Put your guns down, otherwise there'll be a funeral home van here tomorrow.