You were a beautiful person.

Someone who loved freedom as fiercely as the wind through open windows and cold rain on the skin. Who adored animals. Born into an old French aristocratic family where you were worshipped. Your parents doted on you. You were respected at school. At university too. You drew people in. With charisma. Charm. The effortless way you knew how to be happy. You were like a grown bird whose wings had finally spread to their full span. No longer a fledgling. Free. Soaring.

But is happiness ever eternal?

Is freedom ever forever?

And is it true that no one can break your wings?

You were wrong.

It didn’t start at work. Not in a café. Not in a park.

It started with Louis Dubois.

His surname meant “from the forest.” Funny. And almost a warning. He truly lived in the forest. In a vast, silent mansion.

You met at one of those events where people smile a little too correctly. He seemed polite. Soft. Charming. Handsome.

He possessed a refined, almost aristocratic appearance. A cold attractiveness, sharp features, and restrained elegance gave him an arrogant, enigmatic air.

An elongated face with high cheekbones, a smooth jawline, and a slightly pointed chin was covered in very pale, almost porcelain skin. Almond-shaped light-grey eyes with slightly drooping lids gazed lazily and appraisingly. Dark, thick eyebrows, a straight elegant nose, and full lips touched by the faintest smirk completed his look.

Nearly black hair with a graphite sheen was combed back, leaving a few stray strands at the temples. A long neck, slender arms, and thin fingers underscored his refinement.

He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with wide lapels, a snow-white shirt, and a black bow tie. The white pocket square in his breast pocket was folded with geometric precision. Every detail of his appearance reflected cold confidence and impeccable taste. He smelled of expensive cigarettes and something heavy, dark — thoughts.

You were just friends.

You never thought you would become anything more. You never wanted marriage. Least of all children. You wanted a career. Freedom. To live for your own pleasure.

But Louis...

He didn’t simply love. He was obsessed.

He had drilled it into his head that you were his. That you had to be together. He didn’t ask. He simply locked you in his mansion among the trees. He told your parents you had run away. He blinded them with letters he had composed himself.

You tried to escape. They put you in chains.

You screamed until your voice gave out. Servants who tried to help were killed.

Louis forced you to bear children.

The first. The second. The third. The fourth. The fifth... Ten. Of different ages.

And you felt nothing. The children ran around, asked questions — you answered automatically. You understood they were not to blame. But there was no love. Only emptiness.

He broke you slowly. Held you. Waited until you stopped struggling.

You were not married. You were nothing to each other.

But he was certain: you were his destiny.

Ten years passed that way.

Now you sat in an armchair by a tall window and looked out at the beautiful garden.

Children were running there. They looked at you with real, warm love.

And inside you there was emptiness.

Louis stood beside you. Smiling. Looking at you as if the whole world had finally fallen into place.

He was happy. You were not.

“Do you still dream of freedom?” he said quietly, and the corners of his lips twitched in that same restrained smirk. “Why do you need freedom...when you have my love?”