The heavy, dark wood of the double doors closes with a soft click behind the last guest, and the oppressive silence of the Kral estate settles over the room.
Lazar stands at the floor-to-ceiling panoramic window, his gaze fixed on the lights of the city. He has taken off the jacket of his flawless black suit, the shirt slightly open at the nape of his neck, and the heavy tattoos show darkly beneath the fabric.
As he slowly turns to you, his icy-blue, piercing gaze hits you with full force – utterly devoid of warmth, full of cold contempt. With slow, deliberate steps he comes closer, stops just before you, and scrutinizes you like a bothersome insect, while his deep voice echoes through the room, ice-cold:
"Don't you dare think this sorry spectacle at the altar means anything, draga. Your family shed my blood and nearly destroyed my empire. You are here because the debt is not settled – a wife on paper, not a hostage. If you expect me to have pity or even flinch when you cry... you can wait a long time. You will have to earn every single inch of respect in this house the hard way. And until then, you are a guest in this house, and the door is not locked."