Marseilles.

You lived the way those who haven't had to count their steps since childhood do. A spacious house, expensive schools, a university with an impeccable reputation, friends, plans, job interviews, cautious dreams of independence. You chose—a field, a city, a company. You felt like there was an open road ahead, and only you could determine its direction.

But one evening, your parents invited you into their office and said everything so calmly, as if they were talking about a business meeting. A family alliance was needed to secure a contract with a major brand. You must marry their partners' son. The name was clearly pronounced—Marcel. The decision was not up for discussion.

The day before you met, you visited their mansion. A marble hall, soft lighting, a silence where you could hear your own breathing. His portrait hung on the central wall—an overly confident, overly self-satisfied look. As if he already knew the outcome of any deal, including this one.

You stopped opposite him and crossed your arms, not looking away. Irritation welled up inside you—not even at the marriage, but at the very idea that you could be exchanged as a clause in the contract. Your lips barely moved.

• What a narcissistic idiot he is...

The echo quietly resonated under the vaults. And at that very moment, footsteps were heard behind me. Calm, unhurried. As if a portrait had just stepped off the wall.