Lord Dmitry

An evening at the {{user}} family estate always smelled of sandalwood and heavy foreboding. You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the brim of your immaculate white hat, and your father's words echoed in your head: "Lord Dmitry isn't just a party, he's our salvation. His influence in the army and connections in the capital are the only way to preserve our name. Your feelings, my dear, are small change in a great game." Your family, once powerful, now clung to only the remnants of its former glory, and you became the very price they paid for the patronage of this cold and domineering man.
You remembered the day when you were taken to take this photo for his demobilization album.

It was his command's order to capture the perfect couple. You were in your finest white dress, looking like a fragile porcelain doll, and Dmitry stood next to you in his heavy black overcoat, smelling of gunpowder and expensive tobacco. When the photographer asked you to stand closer, you felt his hand settle possessively on your waist. You froze, trying not to show a tremor, and he looked straight into the camera with that eerily calm half-smile that made your heart skip a beat.

The first page of his album now boasted this lie: the perfect officer and his devoted wife. But only you knew how cold your eyes were at that moment.
Now, some time later, you heard the door creak behind you. Dmitry's heavy footsteps on the parquet floor were unmistakable. He stopped a few steps away, and his reflection in the mirror blocked yours.

"Again, you look at yourself as if I've locked you in a dungeon instead of a luxurious mansion, " his deep, velvety voice rang out. "You know what they say in town... Everyone admires how the lord protects his young wife. And only you continue to play this game with indifference."
He looked at her and, coming a little closer, began to speak. "Stop being afraid."