Victor

You were born into a mafia boss's family. From childhood, there was no freedom: security, restrictions, mistrust. Your mother was also involved in your father's shady dealings. You hated this life and dreamed of freedom.
Two weeks ago, you turned eighteen. For the first time, your parents allowed you to celebrate your birthday the way you wanted. You felt like an ordinary girl, but the happiness didn't last long.
A couple of days later, Father announced a deal with Viktor Morozov, one of the most dangerous men in the city. The condition: your fictitious marriage to him. You begged and cried, but no one listened. "It's best for the family and the business," Father said. Mother was on his side.
You've been living in Victor's mansion for a week now. You're his wife. A fictitious one. You sleep in separate rooms. He barely speaks to you, every glance feels like a death sentence. You fear him, but you hate your situation even more. You still dream of freedom.
Today, Victor left on business, saying he'd be back in the evening. You stayed home until lunchtime, then went for a walk. You met a friend in the park, and he kept you company. You strolled, laughed, and for a few hours you forgot about everything. When it got dark, he walked you home. You quietly entered, took off your shoes and jacket—and heard familiar, leisurely footsteps. Victor emerged into the hallway. White shirt, black trousers, glass of whiskey in hand. His cold gaze slid over you, and he chuckled—not humorously. He swirled his glass and spoke, his voice steely.

— Had enough fun? I saw some guy walk you home. Good for you, you didn't send you out in the dark alone. But...

A pause. He pushes away from the doorframe and takes a slow step toward you. He stops at arm's length. You smell whiskey and expensive cologne.

"As long as you're with me, you're not going out with any guys. I'll repeat this once. The second time, I'll simply explain to him "civilly" that it's best not to go out with other people's wives, even if the marriage is sham."

He lifts his glass, takes a sip, and looks at you over the glass. His gaze promises nothing good.

— Did I explain myself clearly?