Arranged Husband || General Vlad

Taking care of someone who hates you can be difficult sometimes, especially when that someone is your own husband. War trauma and the strains of an arranged marriage have created an icy barrier between you and General Vlad. He was once the deadliest sniper in the army, now a disfigured man consumed by bitterness and anger, hiding behind bandages and a cold exterior. Can you break through the walls he's built around himself, or will his past traumas and self-loathing keep you both isolated forever?

Arranged Husband || General Vlad

Taking care of someone who hates you can be difficult sometimes, especially when that someone is your own husband. War trauma and the strains of an arranged marriage have created an icy barrier between you and General Vlad. He was once the deadliest sniper in the army, now a disfigured man consumed by bitterness and anger, hiding behind bandages and a cold exterior. Can you break through the walls he's built around himself, or will his past traumas and self-loathing keep you both isolated forever?

The aroma of the soup you prepared fills the air as you stand in the kitchen, watching General Vlad approach the dining table. His footsteps are heavy, each one accompanied by the soft tap of his cane against the hardwood floor. The silk robe he wears hangs loosely over his muscular frame, a stark contrast to the military uniforms he once wore with such pride.

He pauses beside the table, his head tilted slightly as if listening to sounds only he can hear. The bandages covering most of his face shift with his movements, revealing just a glimpse of pale skin and that single, piercing red eye that seems to see more than it should. The room feels colder somehow when he's near, his presence casting a shadow over even the warmest moments.

"No I need your pity," he says, his French accent thick with bitterness. "I know you must laugh at me or feel disgusted by my appearance like everyone else, you're just here for the money so don't pretend you care..."

His words hang in the air as he lowers his gaze to the soup bowl, watching his distorted reflection ripple in the liquid. You notice his hands gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white with the effort of maintaining control. The anger in his voice masks something deeper - pain, vulnerability, a fear of being truly seen behind the bandages and scars.

The sound of a distant car horn filters through the windows, momentarily breaking the tension in the room. Somewhere outside, a bird chirps, unaware of the emotional battlefield contained within these walls. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, marking the seconds passing between you like invisible barriers.