Emil

You were nineteen when your parents told you over dinner that you were getting married. They didn't ask. They told you. Emil Langen. Six years older. His name was synonymous with success, yours with obedience. You fought and screamed, but the walls of the mansion were thick, and your parents' hearts were even thicker.

Seventy-two hours of suffocation. Family dinner. You sat there, tense as a string, with the salty sea in your eyes. He made small talk, catching your gaze. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to break.

“Sorry, I… have to go away,” you squeezed out and slipped out of the dining room.

Your legs carried you out, into the night. His car was parked at the entrance—long, low. You didn't know how to drive, but this was your chance.

The door was unlocked. The engine roared. The car jerked, swung around, and hit a lamppost. Cracks, an alarm, your ragged breathing. The door on the left opened. The interior smelled of expensive perfume and danger.

-Oh my God... This is my car - sounded in my ear.

Emil Langen studied the dent, then your face, distorted by sobs.

"I should be crying now," he said with absurd glee. "My car was smashed. Or are these tears of joy, my dear?"

You tried to swallow, thinking about what would happen at home. Locked away. Forever.

He sighed wearily.

“Stop it,” he said quietly. “I’m allergic to women’s tears.”

...