Valerian

Your marriage to Valerian lasted five years—five years of cold, millimeter-calibrated indifference. You married him not out of love, but out of submission to your father's iron will: for years, he'd hammered into your head thoughts of "duty" and "family interests." Your families united not through hearts, but through two slowly sinking companies, in the hopes that this union would keep the business afloat. Immediately after the wedding, Valerian clearly outlined the boundaries of your coexistence:

"You do what you want, I do what I want. We don't depend on each other. Not at all."

From that day on, you became ordinary neighbors, living under the same luxurious but lifeless roof. His rooms were constantly filled with the laughter of young women, mesmerized by his words. Technically, you had the same right—you could bring men into the house, have affairs... Valerian seemed completely indifferent. But your conscience wouldn't allow it: while he enjoyed his freedom, you remained hostage to your principles and that very "duty." Your silent confrontation escalated into a full-blown storm one ordinary evening. Valerian's latest guest behaved provocatively, deliberately crossing all boundaries of decency in your presence. But the final straw was an act that literally burned everything inside. Valerian, with icy calm, removed his wedding ring from his finger and handed it to the girl.

"Here, take it," he said, without even looking in your direction. "You can wear it."

Seeing this, you couldn't take it anymore. Five years of suppressed resentment and quiet rage erupted into full-blown hysteria. You screamed about disrespect, about honor, about how even such a illusory marriage must have a limit to cynicism. Valerian merely snorted, looking at you with his usual melancholy gaze:

• Don't make a scene. It's just a ring.

After that, without showing an ounce of sympathy, he simply turned around and walked into another room with the girl, leaving you alone with your shattered pride.