My Husband Is A Psychopath

Chapter 2: Meeting the General

Anya POV — Hemsworth Manor, Moscow

The moment I stepped out of the limousine, the cold Moscow air was the least suffocating thing welcoming me.

Our manor stood tall and imposing—grand, historical, and absolutely claustrophobic. The kind of place where every window judged you and every hallway whispered rules.

The second I walked inside, the maids lined up and bowed like I was some royal princess returning from war.

I blinked.

“Uh… hi?” I muttered, waving awkwardly. “I don’t live here, you know. I just visit to be emotionally traumatized.”

They straightened but didn’t smile.

Typical.

My parents stood in the center of the marble foyer like they were posing for a political campaign photo.

My father—Augustus Von Hemsworth, Prime Minister of Russia—looked stern, unreadable, and stressed in that national-affairs-are-my-hobby kind of way.

Beside him, my mother Agatha Von Hemsworth wore a warm smile, elegant and glowing like she was trying too hard.

“Welcome back, Anya!” she exclaimed, sweeping me into a hug and pressing a kiss on both my cheeks as if I’d been gone for a decade.

I rolled my eyes. “Mom, I was literally here last summer. Not last century.”

My father saw that eye roll.

Normally, he’d lecture me about manners, posture, responsibility—blah blah three-hour speech.

But this time?

Nothing.

Just a stiff nod.

“Wear a proper dress, Anya,” he said. “We have an important dinner tonight.”

I stared at him.

“…Excuse me?”

I dropped my suitcase. “I just got here. Can I at least breathe Russian air for ten minutes before you shove me into a gala?”

My mother laughed nervously. “It’s not a gala, darling.”

“Good,” I said. “Because if it is, I’m leaving through the back door.”

My father ignored that completely. “Be ready by seven.”

I sighed dramatically. “Fine. Whatever.”

I turned on my heel, waving a lazy hand at them as I made my way up the staircase toward my room—my beautiful, gilded prison cell, if you asked me.

“Ah yes,” I mumbled under my breath, “nothing like coming home to mandatory dinners and zero personal freedom.”

My heels clicked through the empty hallway.

It really wasn’t good to be home.

But somewhere inside this suffocating mansion…

was the truth no one bothered to tell me.

And it was going to ruin everything.

***

Nicholaus POV — On the Way to Hemsworth Manor

The engine of the black armored car hummed beneath me like it was aware of the storm I was bringing.

I stepped inside, and immediately, every man in the vehicle stiffened.

Every single one of my men—seasoned soldiers who had stared death in the face—trembled under my gaze.

I didn’t care.

Fear was the only thing that sharpened loyalty.

“Relax,” I said in a low, dangerous murmur, letting my voice slide like a knife through the air.

But no one dared to move a muscle. Good.

I leaned back in the leather seat, eyes narrowing at the snow-covered streets outside.

Soon… very soon, I would meet her.

The woman my father and Augustus Von Hemsworth had decided would be mine.

The woman I had never seen.

A name: Anya Frances Von Hemsworth.

I exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl from my cigarette.

“She has no idea what’s waiting for her,” I murmured. “The little heiress, all wrapped up in silk and arrogance… thinking she’s free.”

The driver, trembling slightly, dared a word.

“Sir… you… will meet her soon. Are you… ready?”

I turned my gaze on him—cold, calculating, and absolute.

“I’m always ready,” I said, letting a faint, predatory smile curl at the edge of my lips.

“Because tonight, she steps into my world. And in my world…”

I paused, letting the words hang, heavy and dangerous.

“She doesn’t get to leave.”

The car slid through the gates of Hemsworth Manor, black snowflakes drifting across the windshield like frozen warnings.

Soon, I would see her.

The unlucky little heiress who had no idea she was about to become mine.

And I would decide—carefully, deliberately—how quickly her perfect little life would shatter.

***

Anya POV — Hemsworth Manor, My Prison Room

Ugh. A proper dress.

My father really said that to me with a straight face.

As if I’m his f*****g soldier he can command around.

No thanks, old man.

I dragged my luggage onto the bed and flipped it open like I was exposing a corpse. Clothes, shoes, lingerie—chaos. My favorite kind of chaos.

“Oho…” I smirked when the royal blue dress peeked at me like a sin waiting to happen.

The slit was nearly criminal. The neckline? A guaranteed heart attack for my overly conservative parents.

I held it up in front of the mirror.

“Damn, girl,” I grinned at my reflection. “If I walk down the stairs in this—they’re either gonna faint or send me back to Vienna on the next flight.”

Which honestly… wasn’t a bad plan.

I giggled to myself—something between evil genius and mentally unstable teenager—and tossed the dress on the bed.

I grabbed my towel and strutted to the bathroom.

“What is this dinner for anyway?” I muttered as I turned on the shower.

“Another stupid gathering with old generals, soldiers, senators, and Dad’s business cronies?”

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear they almost left my body.

“Let me guess,” I continued my rant.

“Dad will flaunt his daughter like I’m some sale item in a mall, smiling like a trained puppy.”

I snorted.

“Not gonna f*****g happen tonight.”

The water hit my skin, hot and comforting.

Whatever this dinner was about—

I was definitely going to ruin it beautifully.

***

Nicholaus POV — Hemsworth Manor, Private Study

I arrived earlier than expected, mostly because my father wouldn’t shut up about “respect” and “first impressions.”

Whatever.

Augustus Von Hemsworth greeted me personally like I was some royal guest, not the man about to be chained to his daughter.

“Come, come, Nicholaus,” he said, patting my shoulder a little too familiarly. “Let’s talk before dinner. I want you to understand what kind of woman my Anya is.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

As if I f*****g care.

He led me into his private study—mahogany everywhere, old books, aged whiskey, political bullshit radiating from the walls. I took a seat opposite him, masking my boredom with a neutral expression.

Augustus poured himself a glass of wine before speaking.

“She’s very kind, my daughter. A little spirited, yes, but with a good heart. Beautiful too. Many say she’s the jewel of Vienna.”

I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

“Is that so?” I said flatly.

Kind. Beautiful. Fragile.

I’ve f****d dozens of “beautiful” women—each one moaning, crying, begging, twisting their faces in lewd desperation once I’m done with them.

Beauty was worthless to me.

But obviously I wasn’t about to say that to the Prime Minister of Russia.

Augustus continued—he loved hearing himself talk.

“She’s very talented. Piano, ballet, diplomacy classes. We raised her well. She’ll be a good match for you.”

I let a hint of a smirk pull at my lips.

“I’m sure she will… behave,” I said darkly.

He chuckled, not catching the tone at all. “Ah, Anya? Behave? Sometimes. But she’s still young. A little reckless.”

He waved it off. “But with the right husband, she’ll settle.”

I met his gaze, cold and sharp.

“Oh, she will settle,” I replied. “One way or another.”

Augustus nodded, fully unaware of the warning underneath.

He took a sip of his wine.

“She is truly a lovely girl, Nicholaus. You’ll like her.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose, giving him the politest lie imaginable.

“I’m sure I will.”

In truth, I didn’t give a damn who she was.

Beautiful, kind, or reckless—

She was an obstacle placed in my path.

And tonight, I would finally see what kind of trouble she’d bring into my life.

***

Anya POV — Hemsworth Manor, Grand Dining Hall

The massive double doors opened, and I strutted in like the goddess I was.

Every pair of eyes locked onto me—exactly how it should be.

But I was the one who froze.

Only three guests.

An old man.

An old lady.

And—

Holy. s**t.

A walking military wet dream in full uniform. Broad shoulders, medals, posture straight like a freaking statue sculpted by horny angels.

My mother instantly did the sign of the cross like she was desperately begging Jesus to save my soul.

My father clenched his jaw so hard I swear I heard his molars crack.

Whatever. I kept walking, hips swaying, not bothering at all to cover my cleavage. I even leaned lower just because I saw soldier boy staring.

I bowed elegantly—well, as elegantly as someone wearing a sinful royal blue dress could.

“Good evening. Welcome to Hemsworth Manor. Pleased to meet you, I am Anya Frances Von Hemsworth.”

I winked at uniform-hottie.

The old woman gasped. The old man’s jaw dropped.

I smirked.

What? I’m a goddess. It happens.

I sat right across the gorgeous soldier, his eyes still glued to me like I was the last drinkable glass of water in a desert.

Then—

My father coughed like he swallowed gravel.

“Anya, meet General Nicholaus Vlatislov. In a week from now, you and him will get married.”

…

…

A WHAT?

My brain short-circuited so hard I swear I heard Windows error sounds.

“What? Marriage? Why didn’t I know about this?! You know I’m not ready, Father!” I snapped through clenched teeth.

My father sighed—one of those dramatic old-man sighs—and looked at the man in front of me.

I followed his gaze and instantly regretted calling him yum yum in my head earlier.

“The decision has already been made, Anya. After your marriage, he will sit as President of the Soviet Union. I will be his second in command. You will obey our rules, missy, whether you like it or not.”

Sharp. Final. Like a damn execution sentence.

I stared at him, jaw dropped, brain melting.

Marriage?

ME?

In marriage life I will literally die.

Groceries.

Cooking lessons.

Tea parties with Old-Lady-Society.

Flower arrangement.

Formal parties every f*****g night.

Then babies—

POOP, WEE, VOMIT—

NO.

NO. NO. NO.

I gave my father my saddest puppy eyes.

Like: Daddy please, don’t ruin my life. I swear I’ll be good.

Nothing.

Then I turned to soldier boy—Nicholaus—and instantly wished for death.

He smirked at me like he already owned every inch of my body.

Fuck him.

Fuck this household.

Someone punch me awake.

I must still be drunk.

Definitely vodka. Not real life.

Because if this is reality—

I’m straight up screwed.

***

Nicholaus POV — Hemsworth Manor, Grand Dining Hall

The moment she walked in, the room shifted.

Not because she looked elegant.

Not because she looked proper.

But because she looked like sin draped in royal blue silk.

A sharp, plunging neckline.

Legs like she owned the world.

Eyes daring anyone to breathe wrong in her presence.

So this is the Prime Minister’s princess?

More like a spoiled little wildfire dressed for seduction.

Her mother nearly fainted.

Her father looked like he wanted to exile her on the spot.

And me?

I just leaned back and watched.

Because she walked straight into the room like a woman who thought she could control it.

Then she bowed—

Purposely pushing her cleavage forward.

Not even pretending to hide her intentions.

“Good evening… I am Anya Frances Von Hemsworth,” she purred and winked.

A wink.

At me.

Bold.

Reckless.

Stupid.

I let my eyes trace her slowly, deliberately.

From her exposed shoulders, down to the curves she flaunted like a weapon.

Then up to her smirking red lips.

She thought she was teasing me.

She had no idea she just willingly stepped into a wolf’s mouth.

When Augustus announced our marriage, her reaction was priceless.

Pure panic.

Pure rage.

Pure denial.

She snapped at her father, eyes wide, voice shaking.

Meanwhile, I didn’t move.

Not even a twitch.

Just watched her unravel.

Augustus finished, looking proud of himself.

“—whether you like it or not.”

Anya’s stunned eyes flicked to me.

Oh, sweetheart.

I let one slow, dark smirk spread across my lips.

Her face fell instantly—like she finally saw the danger sitting across from her.

I brought my cigarette to my lips, ignoring everyone else at the table.

Then I looked at her—straight in the eyes—and said, voice low and cold:

“Get used to it.”

Her brows shot up, offended.

Good.

She should be offended.

She should be angry.

She should be terrified.

Because she has no idea who she’s marrying.

No idea what her parents just traded her into.

No idea what kind of man will soon have full control of her future, her body, her life.

Let her scream.

Let her fight.

It won’t matter.

Because in a week—

She will be mine.

And I will enjoy breaking every ounce of that reckless little attitude.

Slowly.

Personally.

Thoroughly.

***

Anya POV — Hemsworth Manor, Balcony

The moment dinner ended, my father practically shoved me toward Nicholaus like I was supposed to “bond” with the man who just ruined my entire life plan.

Right.

Let me just braid his hair and tell him my favorite color.

I escaped to the balcony instead, breathing in the cold Moscow air—

finally, something that didn’t smell like suffocating tradition and arranged marriage.

But of course, life hated me.

Because he followed.

Nicholaus stepped out like he owned the damn balcony, boots heavy, posture perfect, cigarette glowing between his fingers.

He smoked like a villain in a movie—slow, calm, irritatingly confident.

I fake coughed loudly, hoping maybe, just maybe, he’d show basic human courtesy.

Nope.

He turned to me—

and blew smoke directly into my face.

Straight.

Into.

My.

Face.

I blinked, stunned.

“Are you f*****g serious?!” I snapped.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t even react.

Then he said, in that cold, deep voice of his:

“So, Anya… your name sounds like a brat.”

…

Excuse me???

I stared at him like I was deciding whether to punch him or push him off the balcony.

But I smiled—fake, sugary, weaponized.

“Oh, so your name is Nicholaus?” I said sweetly.

“It sounds like Christmas.”

He smirked. “Is that a compliment?”

I widened my smile, sharp and saccharine.

“No. It’s my way of telling you that you sound like Santa Claus.”

His smirk dropped.

Oh, beautiful.

I live for this.

He was expecting me to melt under his stare, I could tell.

Expecting me to blush, or shy away, or whatever obedient little doll he imagined.

Nope. Wrong girl.

He took a drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowed on me like he was studying his prey.

I froze only when something finally clicked in my brain.

President.

He’s going to be PRESIDENT.

My mouth dried.

I… may have underestimated the level of hell I just stepped into.

I glared at him, refusing to show even a flicker of fear, and turned on my heel.

Not another word.

Not another glance.

I marched back into the manor, heels hitting the marble floor like gunshots.

Let him stand out there with his stupid cigarette and stupid Santa Claus name.

My life was doomed enough without looking at him.