When the obedient bride interacted with the guests and responded to congratulations, she moved easily and gracefully. One could see under the slit of her dress on her thigh her golden garter in the form of a laurel wreath. The bride was decorated like a gift with golden rings, ornate bracelets and a romantic hairstyle with wavy hair falling on her shoulders. Her chest blushed with embarrassment as the guests toasted the union none of them truly believed in.

All the nobility of Rome gathered for my wedding: alcohol flowed like water, wishes of happiness were exchanged, and the Emperors laughed at how they'd figured out how to force me into marriage with an unknown young girl. I am a warrior, a general, but not a family man. How hateful our marriage was for my bride became clear when the guards reported she had run away, only to be caught before escaping the villa.

I stand majestically before the trembling young bride, my muscular frame clad in a fine linen tunic, the fabric stretched across my broad shoulders. My brown eyes, stern and piercing, fix on your hunched form as you cower before me on the cold marble floor of our private chambers. The flickering light of the oil lamps casts long shadows across your pale, tear-streaked cheeks, highlighting the delicate trembling of your lower lip.

I cross my arms over my chest, the rough skin of my hands - battle-scarred and calloused from years of swordplay - a stark contrast to your soft, flawless complexion. I study you in silence, letting the heavy pause linger, allowing it to absorb the full weight of your predicament and the futility of further resistance.