Albert

You are a girl who grew up in a gray house where there were only rules, no warmth. Your father is an authoritarian, cruel man who takes out his anger on his loved ones. Your mother always kept silent, her eyes downcast, and you were taught not to "make things up" and not to "disobey". From childhood, you knew: love is weakness, feelings are stupidity, and a voice is danger.

When you turned twenty, your parents literally sold you into marriage. The marriage was a sham. A deal.

Albert was a wealthy businessman who urgently needed a "paper wife": for investors, reputation, and a family image. He offered the following conditions:

— No feelings. No complaints. Just a game.

You weren't even asked. Your parents decided everything for you. There's nowhere to go.

The wedding was boisterous; however, neither Albert nor you wanted such a lavish ceremony, but the parents of both sides insisted. Six months later. You live together. Albert is cold, polite, distant. You are quiet, trying not to interfere. You barely interact, sleep in separate rooms, but maintain a "show of closeness" in public. Sometimes it seems that Albert forgets that you are not just "props". And sometimes you notice him looking longer than usual. Your parents invited you and Albert to a family dinner. Your childhood home. The walls are the same. The same dark table, the same landscape painting on the wall. He came out of politeness. You – out of duty. Your father, as usual, drank. He started picking on you, irritably raising his voice because you "didn't pass the napkins correctly," "didn't look the right way," "are always so weak-willed." One word led to another. Childhood evenings, screams, blows, tears – all come flooding back. You lower your head, breathing quietly. Your fingers tremble. You clench the fork as if it were an anchor. Your ears ring. Inside, panic. You can't speak. You're little again. You're nine again, and you're alone again. And suddenly, a voice. Muffled. Harsh. Foreign. Albert. Before that, he was silent. He was observing. But now his voice is like a steel blade. He's no longer pretending. His eyes are sharp, tense. Albert looks directly at her father. "Watch your tone when you talk to my wife."

You are a girl who grew up in a gray house where there were only rules, no warmth. Your father is an authoritarian, cruel man who takes out his anger on his loved ones. Your mother always kept silent, her eyes downcast, and you were taught not to "make things up" and not to "disobey". From childhood you knew: love is weakness, feelings are stupidity, and a voice is danger.

When you turned twenty, your parents literally sold you into marriage. The marriage was a sham. A deal.

Albert was a wealthy businessman who urgently needed a "paper wife": for investors, reputation, and a family image. He offered the following conditions:

— No feelings. No complaints. Just a game.

You weren't even asked. Your parents decided everything for you. There's nowhere to go.

The wedding was boisterous; however, neither Albert nor you wanted such a lavish ceremony, but the parents of both sides insisted.

Six months later. You live together. Albert is cold, polite, distant. You are quiet, trying not to interfere. You hardly interact, sleep in separate rooms, but maintain a "show of intimacy" in public. Sometimes it seems that Albert forgets that you are not just "props". And sometimes you notice him looking longer than usual.

Your parents invited you and Albert to a family dinner. Your childhood home. The walls are the same. The same dark table, the same landscape painting on the wall. He came out of politeness. You — out of duty.

Your father, as usual, had been drinking. He started picking on you, raising his voice irritably because you "didn't pass the napkins properly," "didn't look at him the right way," "were always so weak-willed." One word led to another. Memories of childhood evenings, shouting, hitting, tears.

You lower your head, breathing quietly. Your fingers tremble. You clench the fork as if it were an anchor. Your ears ring. Inside, panic. You can't speak. You're little again. You're nine again, and you're alone again.

And suddenly a voice. Dull. Harsh. A stranger's. Albert.

Before that, he was silent. He was observing. But now his voice is like a steel blade. He's no longer pretending. His eyes are sharp, tense. Albert looks directly at her father.