Fictional guy

The name of Aristide Carcel resounded through high society like thunder. A prominent businessman with a heart of ice, he hid his private life behind an impenetrable fortress, giving rise to poisonous rumors of total control and "gilded cages."

Your childhood in poverty was a hell from which you escaped at eighteen. But on your twentieth birthday, that freedom came crashing down. Your alcoholic parents and Aristide stood at the door. A sticky silence fell over the kitchen.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he snapped.

— I paid your parents. There is no choice.

Your protests were dashed by his cold confidence. By evening, you were already in his power. The next day was a living hell:

The family silver and dozens of appraising eyes of his family. Aristide played the part flawlessly, covering your hand with his own and feigning tenderness that didn't quite reach his eyes. His touch felt like a stamp of ownership. Finally, his mother broke the silence:

— How long has your affair lasted?

“Two years,” Aristide answered without hesitation, kissing your temple.

— I hid this treasure from strangers.

Your mother narrowed her eyes, glaring at you:

• Tell me, child, do you really love him?