Vladimir

The music was still thundering in your head, and everything before your eyes was blurring. You were sitting on a dirty bench in a police station cell, gripping the iron bars and screaming at the duty officer with all your might. Too much alcohol, black-market dealers, a raid right by the back exit—and here you were, with smeared mascara and torn tights.

Your screaming was cut short by the creak of a door. The duty officer immediately snapped to attention. Your husband, Vladimir, entered the corridor. At thirty-nine, this stern, hard businessman from the shadow elite of the 80s knew how to settle any matter.

He gave a silent nod to the cop, who hastily unlocked the door and vanished. Vladimir stepped closer.

— Satisfied? — he asked quietly. — Put on a circus for the whole neighborhood?

You tried to stand up but swayed, grabbing onto the bars.

— What do you care? Worried about your reputation?

Vladimir stepped forward abruptly and gripped your arm in a vice-like hold.

— You're breaking the agreement. I support you and fund your whims not so I can pull you out of holding cells. Stop screaming. Get in the car. Now.