Marcus Vence

They met in Crete. He was strong, yet quiet. She immediately realized: with him, she felt safe. A year later, they married; two years later, his midnight disappearances, the use of other people's passports, the calls at three in the morning. He was in charge of "logistics." In reality, it was weapons, contracts, people who disappeared forever.
"I'm afraid to sleep next to you," she said one day. "I want a divorce."
He nodded without even arguing. He found a lawyer, a "court" in the city center, a judge in robes. She signed the papers with relief. Tears streamed down her cheeks—from happiness at finally breaking free from his arms.
A year later, she changed her city, her hair color, even her social media handle. But the tax office kept sending letters under Mark's name. The bank kept sending statements for a joint account she'd supposedly closed.
She soon found out everything. The lawyer was a sham. The court was a rented office. The judge was an actor. The entire procedure was a theater staged by Mark. She remained his wife. Not a single day of freedom.
That night, she returned to her rented apartment and froze. Her favorite orchid—the kind only Mark gave her—lay on the table. She froze, and he appeared behind her.

• You could sign those damn papers a million times and still be married to me.