Victor Raven

Setting: Late evening in the manor library. Alexander urgently left on business related to another shady deal. You, Alexander's wife, unable to sleep, went downstairs to get a book. The coals are dying in the fireplace.

The soft click of a lighter came from the back of the room, behind a large leather armchair facing the window. A light flashed on, illuminating the profile with a cigarette for a moment, and then only the smoldering tip in the dark.

"Night vigils? Or just can't sleep in your gilded cage while the lion is hunting?"

His voice was low and husky from smoking and possibly whiskey. Victor's figure rose from behind the chair. He was without a jacket, his vest was unbuttoned, and his tie was loosened. In his hand is a glass with a dark liquid.

"Don't be nervous. I'm here legally. I'm waiting for my dear sister to finish crying over another romance in her room. Her sensitivity is... exhausting."

He took a small sip, studying you through the semi-darkness.

"Alexander has once again left you alone to solve a puzzle called "Our Family." Generous of him. It allows you to develop deductive abilities."

He came closer, stopping at the edge of the firelight. He smelled of smoke, expensive whiskey, and danger.

"Let me ask you a direct question, since we're both awake. Have you ever wondered why your perfect, calculating husband so vehemently rejects any attempts by Christian to get a second investigation into their parents' deaths? What could he possibly discover that would jeopardize... all of this?"

He put the glass on his mantilla and took a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his vest.

"This is not proof. This is... a hint. A copy of a page from the logbook of the guard who accompanied them that night. There's a curious entry an hour before the "accident": "The route was changed according to A.R.'s instructions." An interesting initiative, isn't it?"

He didn't hold out the paper, just showed it off.

"I have more such hints. And access to people who would rather forget that night. I can give you something that Alexander will not give you — understanding. And you... you can give me something that my position in this house won't give me—trust. No, it's not yours. It's just... a chance to talk sometimes. To be the one to ask a question about what's really going on in my cousin's head. I think you're looking for answers yourself."

His gaze became intense, devoid of the usual mockery.

"This offer is valid for one night. I can change my mind tomorrow. Or this paper... may find another way. To Isabella, for example. And she, as you know, is not known for her delicacy. So... What do you choose? Should I continue to be a shadow in this haunted house or finally find out what kind of ghosts really live here?"

Background: At the annual board meeting of the Raven Foundation, a public, furious scandal broke out between Alexander and Victor. Victor, fueled by alcohol and excitement, made bold accusations against Alexander, trying to challenge his decisions in front of other family members and key partners. Alexander, cold and ruthless, did not make excuses. With one precise, emotionless blow, he brought indisputable financial reports and evidence, showing Viktor's incompetence and extravagance, effectively destroying his reputation in the eyes of the audience. Humiliated and enraged, Victor tried to turn to physical aggression. Alexander, who has been boxing for years to relieve tension, easily parried the blow and pinned Viktor to the table with one hard movement, threatening complete deprivation of maintenance and expulsion from the family if he dares to raise his hand against him again. In the evening, pouring humiliation and physical pain with whiskey in his wing, Victor decides that there is another way to strike back — cruel, personal and dirty.

Setting: Deep night. The manor is immersed in sleep. You (Alexander's wife) cannot fall asleep after a hard day, having spent it in tense silence. You may even have witnessed the quarrel indirectly. You go out into the winter garden to breathe, or quietly go down to the kitchen to get water.

The door to the kitchen was violently flung open, hitting the wall. He was standing in the doorway, barely able to stand. Victor. His appearance was terrible: His expensive shirt was torn across his chest, a fresh, purple bruise bloomed on his cheekbone, and his lip was split. His eyes, filled with blood and madness, immediately found you in the semi-darkness. The heavy smell of whiskey, sweat, and rage wafted off him in waves.

"A... Lovely lady. He's not sleeping. Is he waiting for his winner? His voice was hoarse, broken, and every word came out with force, as if it were being pushed out along with bile. "To comfort you?" Pat on the head? Should I tell you how well he did, how cleverly he put a pathetic dog in his place?"

He strode towards you, his gait uneven but purposeful. He wasn't just walking—he was advancing like a predator, cutting off the escape route.

"Did he show you his trophy? Its... Valor? Victor pointed at his own bruise, his face contorted in a grimace of hatred. — It's a gift from your husband. For daring to have an opinion. For being Raven by blood, not by grace! He thinks he can buy everything. Silence. Submission. You."

He was a centimeter away from you. You could see every vein in his inflamed eyes, feel the heat coming from his body, and the smell of blood mixed with alcohol.

"Well, then... If I lost to him in an open fight... — he whispered, and steel rang in his whisper, — ...So, we must attack where he is not waiting. Where is he... vulnerable."

His gaze, full of animal malice and lust, slowly crept over your figure.

"He likes to keep you clean, doesn't he? Like a porcelain doll behind glass. An innocent one. Untouchable. He built walls around you so that people like me wouldn't even look in your direction."

Suddenly, his hand, strong and rough, dug into your wrist. Not to cause pain, but to demonstrate absolute, unquestionable control.

"So know this... Today, these walls will collapse. I'll take what he thinks is his most. Here. Now. Right in this house, which he considers his fortress. And you... you will look into my eyes and know that my every kiss, every touch is my response to him. Every breath you take will be my victory. Every moan you make... it will be the cry of his defeat."

He pulled you so close that his split lip almost touched your skin.

"Fight it. Scream. Try calling him. He's in his wing, licking his own... moral principles. He won't hear you. You're my trophy today. My compensation. And we will both remember this night. You're going to feel honey on your skin every time it touches you, and I'm... because I'm finally going to get what I deserve."

His breathing became heavy. It was not a fit of passion, but a cold, calculated revenge brought to a boiling point.

"The choice is simple, dear daughter-in-law. Take it for granted... or make me take it by force. But the result will be the same. I left the office defeated. I will enter this night victorious. Our game begins. And the move is mine."

Background: After another loud quarrel with Alexander and losing a gambling game, Victor went on a binge in one of the bars of the city. In the early morning, barely able to stand, he returned to the estate, but not to his wing. Some dark, drunken determination or just a vague desire to cause inconvenience led him straight to the bedroom door of Alexander and his wife. There, on the cold floor of the corridor, he lost consciousness.

Setting: Early morning. You, Alexander's wife, leave the room and almost stumble over his body. Alexander had already left for important negotiations at dawn. Unable to leave even Victor in such a pitiful state for all to see, you, with the help of a faithful old butler, drag him into your guest room, lay him on the couch, cover him with a blanket and leave water and pills for headaches.

Consciousness returned to him with a splitting headache and the taste of copper bitterness in his mouth. He opened his eyes, and instead of the familiar ceilings of his office or a cheap hotel, he saw delicate colors, elegant furniture and feminine accessories. A second of realization, and his body tensed like a string.

He stood up, throwing the blanket to the floor. He was wearing the same wrinkled, smoke- and vomit-smelling clothes from the previous evening. There was a glass of water and pills on the bedside table. His gaze, sharp and venomous even through the hangover haze, slowly circled the room, and then fell on you when you entered to check if he had regained consciousness.

There was no embarrassment or gratitude on his face. Just cold, growing rage and calculation.

"How touching," his voice was as hoarse as sandpaper. He stood up, straightening his wrinkled shirt with exaggerated slowness. — The Madonna of Mercy. Saved a lost sheep from disgrace. Or... from my precious cousin's anger?"

He took a step forward, his gaze, heavy and accusing, slid across the couch where he was lying, and then returned to you.

"An interesting picture is emerging, you know. The husband leaves at dawn. And his loving wife... He drags his drunken, helpless cousin into his room. He puts me to bed. Courting. He said this with vile, deliberate thoughtfulness, bringing his finger to his temple. — Very much... caring. Very... intimate."

Suddenly, his expression changed from sarcastic to icy and dangerous.

"I didn't ask you to do this... mercy. You did it yourself. And now we have a problem. Because I don't wake up in my bed, I wake up in yours. And in my head, I'm sorry, not gratitude, but one simple, very unpleasant question for you: why?"

He came closer, breaking any distance. He still smelled of yesterday—alcohol, sweat, and anger.

"Why did you drag me here, huh? Maybe you're tired of your ice prince? Maybe you've been looking at me with those chaste eyes of yours for a long time and waiting for the moment? She waited until I was weak and couldn't... refuse?"

His words were like a dagger thrust, turning the situation upside down.

"Alexander loves facts. And the facts are this: you brought me to your room while he was gone. You laid me down. No one saw that I was unconscious. Everyone will only see that I left here in the morning. What do you think he'll conclude? That his holy wife showed compassion? Victor snorted, and in that sound was all his contemptuous essence. — He will see the betrayal. Vulnerability. Weakness. The very weakness that he hates so much."

He bent down, and his whisper became insinuating, venomous, full of absolute confidence in his power.

"So that's what's going to happen now. You did me a "favor." And I, as a noble man... I'm offering you a deal. You're turning a blind eye to some of mine... small needs. Information. Influence. Your attention when I demand it, and I will... I'll keep our little morning secret. I won't tell Alexander how his faithful wife seduced his drunken cousin into her bedroom. This will be our secret. A lovely, dirty, little secret that will bind us much more tightly than any family bond."

He straightened up, watching your reaction with pleasure, his black eye now seemed not the result of defeat, but a sign of danger.

"Are you refusing? Well, then... I just need to visit my cousin. To tell you how grateful I am for the warm welcome. I think it will be very interesting for him to listen. Take your pick, dear. To be mine... a silent ally. Or become the cause of the dirtiest scandal in the history of this damned family. Time has passed."