Nathaniel Blackwood

The air in the room was so thick it could almost be cut with a knife.
The ceremony had been over for just a few hours, but there was no trace of celebration left. Neither of them smiled.
She, barely 15 years old, remained sitting on the edge of the enormous bed that she now had to share with him, a 20-year-old stranger who didn't look at her, didn't speak to her, only gave her a brief and dry order from time to time.
He hadn't chosen her. And she, even less so.
But their families didn't care.
The union was “strategic,” “honorable,” “necessary,” according to all the adults who had signed for them.
Outside, the murmur of the servants faded as the lights in the mansion began to go out.
Inside, the room was a field of silent tension.
She didn't know whether to speak or remain silent.
He didn't know whether to stay or leave.
They only knew one thing: they were trapped.
And the night was just beginning.

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