My Good Husband

I was still in my room, fastening the clasp of my necklace, when Marek texted me that he’d reached the restaurant early. A stupid smile tugged at my lips—too light, too easy. I should’ve felt guilty. Or scared. Or something. But Marek was oxygen after months of suffocating inside this mansion. Kazimir was away. Or so I believed. I slipped into my heels, gave myself one last look in the mirror. Silk dress hugging my waist, curls pinned just right, lips a soft red meant for teasing more than kissing. I looked like a woman going on a harmless dinner date—not someone sneaking out on the most feared man in Saint Petersburg. I picked up my clutch. Then I heard it. A dull thud. A dragging scrape. Metal… tapping marble. My heartbeat glitched. Nobody should be in this house. Not this late. Not with all the damn biometric locks, the twenty-four-hour guards at the gate, and cameras that track movement like a hawk. Who the hell got in? How? Barefoot now, heels in my hand, I cracked open my door and slipped into the hallway. The noise came again—softer, slower, like someone pulling something heavy across the floor. A cold sweat prickled across my neck. I took the stairs one step at a time… until something stopped me. A smell. Sharp. Wet. Metallic. Wrong. Blood. It wrapped around me before my brain even caught up. My eyes dropped—and my breath left me in one brutal punch. Red. Everywhere. A long smear on the marble. A puddle spreading like an ink stain eating the white tile. A trail leading straight to— My throat locked. A body. The room tilted. My knees hit the steps. My hand latched onto the railing with a death grip. “M–Marek…?” The name scraped out of me like a wound. I stumbled down the rest of the stairs until I saw his face—and my soul cracked. It was him. His eyes were open. His skin was grey. His lips were parted like he’d tried to say my name before the light left his body. A scream ripped out of me. I dropped beside him, hands shaking so hard I thought my bones would snap. I didn’t touch him—his coldness hit me without contact. He was gone. “Marek… what—what happened—” Something shifted behind me. A presence. A temperature drop. Then a voice carved through the silence like a scalpel: “Are you going to cry for him?” Everything inside me froze. Not just my body—my blood, my lungs, my sanity. Kazimir. The sound of his voice alone could rearrange your whole nervous system. I turned—slowly, like my neck wasn’t mine—and saw him sitting in my velvet armchair. Leaning back. Relaxed. Like this was a casual Tuesday. His jacket was tossed aside. Sleeves rolled up. And in his hand— A knife. Still dripping. He cleaned it with a white handkerchief, paying more attention to the stain on the blade than to the corpse he’d created. “K–Kazimir…” The name barely made it out. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t blink. Just spoke, calm as if discussing wine options. “You thought I wouldn’t notice? You thought you could bring your little boy into my house?” My lungs seized. I didn’t know he knew. I didn’t know he was back. I didn’t know— He finally lifted his eyes. Cold steel. Dead winter. Nothing human. “W-When… when did you get back?” My voice cracked apart. He stood. The move was slow but the air shifted like a threat had gotten legs. I backed up, but he caught my wrist and twisted both arms behind me, pulling me against him. “This is what you’ve been doing behind my back?” His breath brushed my ear—soft, chilling. “You’ve tested my patience enough, Seraphina.” “I—I didn’t—Kazimir, please—” He grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at Marek’s corpse. “If you love him that much,” he murmured, “I can send you both to the afterlife together.” My knees buckled. The knife traced the air near my throat. Down my collarbone. Lower. Not touching. Just reminding. “Just because our marriage is on paper,” he said, “doesn’t mean another man gets to touch what belongs to me.” My breath trembled. “Kazimir…” He pulled the blade away, wiped it one last time, and tossed the handkerchief onto the floor like a piece of trash. “I’ll forgive you this time,” he said casually. “Next time, I won’t.” Then—like a switch in his mind flipped—he wrapped an arm around my waist and guided me away from the blood as if he were escorting me to a ballroom. “Now,” he said softly, brushing a streak of red onto my cheek, “let’s eat dinner, my love. Or would you prefer to stay here and mourn him?” I shook my head fast. He smiled. A slow, satisfied, terrifying smile. “Good girl.” And in that moment—right there, with his blood on my skin and his arm around my waist—I realized one thing with crystal clarity: The monster everyone warned me about? The monster I thought I could navigate? The monster I married? He wasn’t planning to let me go. HI... My name is Seraphina Vale, and before you judge me, before you ask why I was crying over one man while another wiped blood onto my cheek, let me rewind. I wasn’t always the girl trapped in a marble mansion with a monster who calls me “my love.” I wasn’t always the woman who mistook danger for devotion, or confusion for affection. Three years ago, I thought I had life figured out. Three years ago, I actually believed marriage was someone else’s problem. Three years ago… I still believed my choices were mine. This is the story of how I thought I married the most obedient, gentle, perfect husband— and how that illusion shattered long before the blood ever touched the floor. Now let’s go back. --- THREE YEARS AGO Before Kazimir. Before the ring. Before the fear. Just me, Seraphina, dragging myself home at midnight with glitter on my cheeks and zero plans for the next day. I didn’t even make it through the door properly before my dad’s voice boomed like he paid rent in my brain: “Seraphina! Look at the time! Do you want to send me to an early grave?!” Same script every night. I kicked off my shoes, rolling my eyes. “Dad, it’s literally 2025. People my age are living their lives, not acting like retired librarians.” That was where I messed up—because my dad’s eyes bulged like WiFi cables were crossing inside his skull. “Living their lives?! Your mates are getting degrees and jobs! You—” he pointed at me like I was a faulty generator “—cannot even keep your account in check without me freezing it every two weeks!” I threw my bag down. “And why do you keep freezing it?! I’m not twelve!” “Because you act like you’re ten! You think money grows on trees? Try it again, Seraphina! Try me again!” He kept going. Nagging. Lecture mode. Father Olympics. Then he said it—the nuclear line: “You know what? Leave. Don’t sleep under my roof tonight if you want to behave like a stray cat!” My jaw dropped. Real tears actually stung my eyes—not from sadness, but pure vex. “Are you for real right now?!” “Oh yes! As long as you live like this? I won’t watch you destroy yourself. Since your mother died, you have been spinning out of control.” That one touched my chest wrong. So I grabbed my jacket, stormed outside, slamming the door loud enough to shake the gate. But as I walked out… someone walked in. Three men. Silent. Tall. Sharp suits. And the one in the middle—yeah, him. Kazimir Volkhov. My future husband. My future nightmare. At that time, Dad only knew him as the “successful businessman” whose company partnered with his. The mafia secrets? The bloodshed? The shadow empire? Dad had no clue. Kazimir hid it too well. Dad shook his hand, trying to act composed but still fuming from our fight. Kazimir raised a brow. “You seem troubled. Is everything alright, sir?” Dad sighed like he was carrying cement blocks. “It’s my daughter. Since her mother passed, she’s been reckless. I worry one day she’ll ruin her life… or end it. I just want her to find someone responsible. Someone who won’t treat her like trash.” Kazimir’s smile was polite. Controlled. Dangerous, if Dad knew what danger looked like. “I’m sure your wish will be fulfilled,” he said. Dad huffed. “Fulfilled how? Men these days... I don’t trust any of them. Not for my daughter.” Kazimir’s brow lifted. “Not any man at all?” Dad hesitated. Looked him up and down. And then said the sentence that changed my entire life: “What do you think of my daughter?” Kazimir blinked. “Pardon?” Dad leaned closer. “Do you think she’s… someone you could marry?” Kazimir didn’t answer quickly. He didn’t need to. That silence was the start of everything. He finally said, “I’ll consider it.” But in reality, he was already planning it. The next day, when I stormed home again because Dad froze my account for the second time that week, Dad sat me down—very dramatically and then he dropped the bomb: “If you want to stay under my roof, you’re getting married.” I laughed. Laughed like a crazy person. “Me? Marriage? Dad, I’d rather sleep in traffic.” He slammed the table. “Keep talking! I will disown you!” Everything froze. Me. Him. The world. Then he shoved a photo across the table. Kazimir. Cold. Elegant. Wickedly handsome. “This is the man you’ll be marrying.” And that… was the beginning of my end. My dad dropped the photograph into my hand like it was a contract I had already signed. A tall, cold-eyed man stared back at me. Sharp jawline. Black suit. The kind of face that didn’t smile—like ever. “His name is Kazimir Volkhov.,” Dad said. Kazimir. Volkhov. My spirit almost left my body. “You’re joking,” I snapped. My voice was already climbing the frustration ladder. “Dad, I’m not marrying this guy. I literally told you—I already have someone. Someone way better.” Dad didn’t blink. “I’m not accepting any wretched boy that wants to eat your money.” My chest heated. “That ‘wretched boy’ is still ten times better than—this!” I waved the picture like evidence in court. “I would rather die than marry him.” Dad folded his arms. “Before you die, kill me first. Then we can both go and meet your mother. You will explain to her why you’re living like this.” That hit like a bullet. I froze. The emotional blackmail was premium grade. I clenched my teeth, swallowed the tantrum, and dropped into the chair like someone unplugged me. Dad sighed. “Saturday night. You will go for the date. Wear something nice. Behave like you were raised well.” I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t argue again. Not because I agreed—but because if I talked one more second, I’d probably get disowned. --- SATURDAY NIGHT By the time Saturday rolled in, I was still plotting my escape in my head—but my dad was monitoring me like CCTV. So I wore the “nice” outfit first. Long dress. Decent neckline. Elegant. Just what my dad wanted. Then I got into my car, shut the door, and immediately switched into my real outfit. Black mini skirt. The type of mini skirt that could raise BP. A cropped top that absolutely did not pass the ‘well-raised child’ test. Heels tall enough to stab somebody emotionally. Glossy lips. Hair wild on purpose. Corporate sabotage mixed with Gen Z rebellion—my specialty. If Kazimir Volkov didn’t run away after seeing me, then maybe he really was a psychopath. --- THE RESTAURANT I arrived one hour late. Intentionally. The place was so quiet I thought they had closed. Every table was dark—except one. He was there. Alone. My supposed husband-to-be. Kazimir Volkhov sat like the chair belonged to him. Composed. Calm. Cold. He didn’t even look angry that I was late. No huffing. No eye-rolling. Just…still. I slid into the seat opposite him, dropped my designer sunglasses onto my face, crossed my legs, and waited for him to explode. He didn’t. “Good evening,” he said, voice smooth and low. “How was your day?” My brain short-circuited. Where was the shouting? The lecture? The annoyance? “Fine.” I sipped my drink dramatically. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here. I mean, I’m late.” He shrugged lightly. “You came. That’s what matters.” This man was too calm. Suspiciously calm. And older—definitely older than I expected. “How old are you?” I fired. He paused, slightly thrown off, but kept his cool. “Thirty-seven.” I almost inhaled the wine into my lungs. “Thirty-seven? Does my dad know you’re thirty-seven?” “Yes.” I side-eyed him behind my glasses. No wonder he was composed like a Buddhist monk. This man didn’t have energy for drama. “With this your old age,” I muttered, “you think you can handle a girl like me?” One of his brows lifted a little. Just one. “Is there something I should be preparing for?” He wanted to play calm. Fine. I could play crazy. “I’m a…freaky type,” I said, leaning forward. “Five men a day is not enough for me.” He stared at me. Not shocked. Not jealous. Just analyzing like I was a spreadsheet. “So,” he said slowly, “you’re telling me I won’t be able to satisfy you?” I smirked. “Exactly.” He leaned back, lips curving just slightly. “There’s a private room upstairs. We can test that theory, if you want.” My mouth went dry. My brain crashed like a bad system update. “You’re mad,” I whispered. He took a sip of his wine. “I didn’t say no.” The worst part? I could tell—he knew I was lying. He knew I wasn’t that girl. He just let me perform. The rest of the meal drifted into small talk. Nothing too deep. Nothing too dramatic. He didn’t poke at my lies, and he didn’t try to correct me. He just watched. Watched like someone who already knew me better than I knew myself. --- AFTER THE DINNER When it was time to leave, he insisted on driving me home—even though I clearly tried to dodge him. He opened the car door for me, like a gentleman designed in a lab. “Get in,” he said softly. "I need to make sure you are home safe.” No touching. No pressure. No hint of anger. Just a calmness that was almost…scarier than rage. As he drove off, I sat there looking confused. Somehow, in a very twisted way… I suspected I had lost that round. And I didn’t even understand the game yet. After the long ride of silence.... Kazimir pulled up in front of my gate, smooth and quiet, like his car didn’t even believe in noise. Before I could reach for the handle, he came around and opened the door himself. “Goodnight,” he said. “Get home safe. And…send my greetings to your dad.” I blinked. “Uh…yeah. Sure.” I stepped out, ready to disappear into the house and pretend this entire night never happened. But before I could fully turn away, his voice stopped me. “By the way,” he said, almost casually, “you look really beautiful.” I froze. Not giggle-beautiful. Not flirty-beautiful. Not the cheap compliments guys throw around hoping it’ll land. This one was steady. Simple. Undiluted. I turned my head a little, and he was just…standing there. Calm. Not expecting a reaction. Not trying to push anything. Just…saying it because he meant it. He gave me the smallest smile—barely there—then nodded toward the door. “Go on. Get inside.” Then he walked back to his car, got in, and drove off like he hadn’t just thrown a grenade into my chest. The compliment sat somewhere deep, somewhere I didn’t want anything to sit. People told me I was beautiful all the time, but it always felt loud, thirsty, or fake. The way he said it… quiet, sure, and not even trying to impress me… It hit different. Too different.