Raphael

I was forced into marriage with Rafael. I needed his protection from enemies, he needed a convenient wife to enhance his status. Our marriage was a deal, nothing more. The contract required us to appear together at important events, portraying the perfect couple. Off-camera, we barely interacted.

That evening he came into my room again and said coldly, "Today we're going to my company's sponsor's birthday party. Be perfectly dressed."

I did exactly as he asked: a black dress, sleek heels, light makeup, and soft, sea-blue waves in my hair. The evening turned out to be tense—people kept staring at me, trying to start a conversation, but I remained distant and simply sipped my wine slowly.

As we got into the car, fatigue overwhelmed me, and I fell asleep. Rafael lingered, saying goodbye to important people, and then sat down next to me, oblivious to my slumber. On a sharp turn, my head slid onto his shoulder. And that was the only time he didn't pull away: on the contrary, I felt his hand rest on the top of my head, and he gently ran his fingers through my hair.