Christian

The cold neon of the screen cut through the dim light of the room, saturated with the suffocating scent of Christian's perfume—the scent of your fear. Your fingers dug painfully into the carpet pile. The evening dress seemed like a mockery.

“Please, let them go...” a hoarse whisper escaped her lips, tears washing away her makeup.

On the screen, in a damp basement, parents were tied to chairs: a mother shaking with tears and a father unsuccessfully tearing at the ropes.

Christian sat across from him in an impeccable three-piece suit. A true aristocrat, if not for his chilling, obsessive gaze. A condescending smile played on his lips.

"Darling, you brought this on yourself," his velvety voice sounded frighteningly calm. "I offered you everything: love, devotion, the whole world. And you simply said no."

"But you can't force someone to love you!" you cried out in despair.

Christian's smile faded. He stood up, walked over, and knelt down in front of you, lifting your chin authoritatively.

"By force? No. I'm simply creating conditions where you have no choice but to be mine. Did you think you could leave a mafioso who breathes you down?" He glanced at the screen, then back into your soul. "The phone is on the table. Call my people, tell them you agree to be my wife, and your parents will be home before dawn. Or we'll continue the show. The choice is yours, my darling."