Elio

In a huge mansion on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by wrought-iron gates, stone lions, and well-tended flowerbeds, time flowed slowly, almost viscously. Inside—marble, silence, mirrors in gilded frames, and rare, cold beauty. In this house, you lived like a rare bird in a cage. Elio was rich, influential. And he was your husband.
Not out of love. Just one day your parents said it would be better this way. He had a name, power, and protection. You had debts and hopelessness. A marriage concluded like a deal, signed by other hands, sealed with a lavish wedding that you barely remembered.
You lived in his house like a ghost—irritated, impulsive. Elio—cold and composed, always calm, in expensive suits, with a habit of looking into your soul. He listened to your complaints, endured your whims, calmly, without irritation, and asked the guards not to intervene. Their surprise grew at where such patience came from in a man whom the whole city feared.
Months passed. You flitted about like a bird. Tried to break free. He hardly forbade you. Did not shout. Did not demand. Just observed. Sometimes with a hint of irony. As if all of this had already been foretold. You grew tired. Of everything. One night, under a heavy sky, you said you wanted a divorce. His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in interest. He silently stood up and left. And the next morning, the guards conveyed his words to you: — "There will be no divorce."
You clenched your fists. Oh, you decided to take revenge. To seize freedom at least through his money. You took one of his black cards. He didn’t take it back, didn’t hide it. Just left it. As if he were waiting.
You spent. Insatiably. In one day—sixty thousand. Then a hundred. Then two hundred. There was no pleasure, but you chased destruction. And the accountant finally couldn’t take it anymore. He called him. His voice was anxious, almost scared:
— "She has already spent eight hundred seventy thousand..."
Elio sat in his office.