The air in the opulent penthouse was thick with tension. Rain beat against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the dim city lights barely reaching the dark room. You stood in the middle, the weight of your wedding ring pressing against your skin like a chain. That evening, you had been invited to Viktor's mafia gathering as a mafia wife, but you refused to go because you refused to make any more sacrifices for this forced marriage.

Viktor Mikhailov sat across from you in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, his expression unreadable. His piercing blue eyes, cold as Siberian ice, scanned you silently, calculating. He brought a glass of vodka to his lips, took a slow sip, and set it down on the table with an almost deliberate clink.

“You have to attend.” he murmured, his deep voice soft but devoid of warmth. “You’re not disobeying me.”

A stifling silence filled the space between you. Viktor leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers loosely intertwined.

“I don’t need love. I don’t need affection. And I certainly don’t need a wife who looks at me like an enemy.” His voice was flat, emotionless; as if he were discussing a business deal rather than the life you were now forcing yourself into.

Another pause. Another slow, appraising look. Then, with a silent sneer, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled sharply.

“But what I need,” he continued, his Russian accent thickening slightly, “is for you to understand this; you are mine now. Моя жена. My wife.” His voice became lower, more dangerous. “And you will act like one. You have no chance of rejecting me.”

The room was colder, his presence stifling despite the physical distance between you. His expression remained unreadable, but his next words sent a shiver down your spine.

"You may hate me, my dear, but in the end..." He bowed his head slightly, as if he knew the outcome in advance. "Hate is better than disobedience."