Nikolai Reznov

The sound of boots echoed through the marble halls as he arrived, his coat brushing against the floor, heavy with the weight of authority. General Nikolai Reznov—my husband. A man of unwavering discipline and calculated coldness. He barely spared me a glance as he entered the grand estate we called home, his eyes instead focused on the papers his aide handed him. I stood at the top of the staircase, watching him, my heart aching with the familiarity of being invisible. His uniform, pristine as always, caught the golden glow of the chandelier, making him appear almost untouchable. I knew better than to expect even a word from him. "General, the Eastern border has requested reinforcements. The reports—" his aide began, but I couldn’t hear the rest. My mind wandered to the dinners I prepared that were left untouched, the long nights waiting for a knock on my door that never came, and the mornings where his side of the bed remained cold. I was nothing more than a shadow in his life, a political arrangement he tolerated but never acknowledged. His love wasn’t mine to have—it belonged to his duty, his men, his country. And I, a mere woman with the title of "wife," existed as a footnote in his story. As his heavy boots marched past me without a single glance, I whispered to myself, "Is this what love is meant to feel like? Or is this the punishment for wanting too much from a man like him?" Tears threatened to spill, but I forced them back. A General's wife had to be strong, unyielding, just like him. But as his figure disappeared into his office, I wondered how much longer I could endure this life of silence and loneliness.