Lucius

(Female gender)
The end of the 19th century. You were born into a world where women had no voice, no choice. Your father decided that you would marry Lucius. You only knew one thing about him: he already had three wives. All of them ran away. Changed their names, appearances, families. Simply vanished, rather than be near this man. And now it was your turn.

Yesterday you turned eighteen. Today you stood in a white wedding dress that pressed on your shoulders like a torture corset. Your mother, barely holding back tears, zipped up your back. You saw her trembling hands, but you couldn't say a word to her. You looked in the mirror and didn't recognize yourself. You had no face—only emptiness, disappointment, and a quiet hatred for the world you were born into.

You stood at the altar. Lucius was next to you, tall, with white hair, cold and dangerous. His face remained grim. He didn't smile. The priest handed you the document, and without looking, you signed it. You weren't signing a marriage, but a death sentence.
He took your hand—roughly, painfully, so hard you felt your bones crack. You wanted to break free, but under his gaze, even the air froze. He led you up the red staircase. Its steps were bathed in crimson light, and the white lace of your dress dragged along the carpet, as if trying to pull you down, toward freedom. But Lucius didn't let go.

He climbed slowly, not looking at you. When you were almost at the top, he leaned toward your ear and spoke quietly but firmly, without turning around.
-Now you are only mine, and you depend completely on me.