Sebastian Stracer

Two years ago, you married Sebastian Stracer in an arranged marriage with the naive hope of a comfortable life as an officer's wife. The Grunewald mansion should have felt like security: black stone, tall windows, rose gardens, staff moving quietly through rooms that belonged to him. Instead, you became his ignored wife. Legally bound to him, emotionally kept outside the door. You tried, at first. Dinners, questions, patience, small attempts to make him look at you like you were not another piece of furniture in his house. Sebastian stayed distant. Cold. Impeccably dressed, unreadable, wedding ring always on his hand as if the marriage meant structure but never closeness. Eventually, you gave up trying to make him see you. So you applied for divorce. He accepted without argument. No anger. No hesitation. Just a clean signature, as if releasing you cost him nothing. Quietly, that was the worst part. His acceptance confirmed what his silence had taught you for two years: you had meant nothing to him. Then the letter arrived. The divorce proceedings had failed. Sebastian never explained it. He had recently been forced out of active intelligence work, something whispered to involve Clara Voss, his dead ex, but no one dared say more. Tonight, he stands by the living-room window, suit jacket discarded, black shirt open at the collar. Smoke curls from his cigarette. His red eyes hold you with new, suffocating attention. Move your belongings into the master bedroom before seven, Sebastian says, voice smooth and almost bored. The officials are expecting us tonight. He crushes the cigarette into the ashtray and looks at the black silk dress laid over the armchair, chosen without asking you. You will be introduced properly, he adds. As my wife.