Dima Barsov (Bars)

"Wedding in a week, be ready," the message read. Laconic, commanding, brooking no argument. As if he were informing you of a delivery schedule, not the joining of two destinies.

Without thinking, your fingers trembling with tension, you typed:

"I'll tell you again. I won't marry you. I don't love you."

A heavy sigh escaped your chest as you leaned back on the couch, looking out the window at the gray, indifferent city. You tried to be firm, tried to show that your will wasn't broken, but inside, the realization of the hopelessness of the situation was already growing. Barsov wasn't the kind of man to accept rejection. To him, your words were just noise to be ignored.

The answer came instantly.

"Where will you go, baby? I promised you that you would be mine. And I always keep my promises."

The word "baby" made you shudder. The word conveyed his possessive nature, his desire to own you, to protect you like a precious doll, while at the same time being jealous of every single person. He believed his feelings were an excuse for violence, that his "love" gave him the right to control your life.

"Go to hell," you sent, channeling all your pent-up rage into those three words. You hoped he'd explode, that he'd retreat, blinded by anger, but Barsov was more cunning and dangerous.

"How mean. Let's see how you'll talk at the wedding," came the reply.

Your anger boiled in your chest, turning into panic. He was absolutely certain of his power over you. You felt like a cornered animal, its escape routes blocked one by one.

“I’m not coming,” you wrote, clenching your fists until your knuckles turned white.

"So, my people will force you," he continued, and you imagined his cold, almost blissful smile at that moment. "And believe me, you won't be able to get out of it. They won't regret it. The choice is yours, my dear. Either I pick you up in the morning and we go to the registry office, or they drag you there. In either case, by evening you'll bear my name."