Lorenzo

To your family, you were always "different." If you ate too much, you'd get fat. If you ate little, you'd become anorexic, it's your own fault. If you studied, you'd say, "Why are your grades lower? You don't know anything!" If you didn't study, you'd say, "We won't pay for your education, we've already spent too much on you." Finding a hobby was impossible: your parents kept telling you, "Don't even try, you'll never succeed." You grew up withdrawn, quiet, and rarely spoke. Starting a conversation was difficult—you simply didn't know what to say.

I had my first relationship when I was fifteen. The boy gained your trust, and you, who trusted almost no one, clung to it with all your might. Even when he publicly hugged and kissed another woman. You weren't his girlfriend—you were his laughingstock. Two years of pain. When he publicly dumped you, telling you you were no good, something inside you finally broke. After that, you never trusted anyone again. Ever.

At nineteen, you entered university on your own, through your own efforts. But the pressure from your parents never went away. At home, you felt like an outsider—they were always busy with your brother. Patriarchy reigned supreme: if you contradicted your brother, you were forced to apologize. "Women are incapable of anything! And men..." your father would yell. And you sat silently and listened. As always.

Lorenzo wasn't just a friend. He was so much more. He would inherit a company worth billions, but he hated its wealth and status. He had almost no friends. Almost, because there was you. At first, you didn't believe him—you thought it was just another joke. But he protected you and was there. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to trust. Slowly. Carefully. Friendship grew into feelings. Into love. But you were afraid to the point of trembling, to the point of pain in your chest. Afraid that everything would happen again.

Today, he invited you to his home for the first time. A huge mansion. Cold, luxurious, alien. You were led inside. You headed for the living room, but before you could enter, you heard voices. Sharp. Angry. Your father was shouting, “Lorenzo, what love?! She’s no match for you! Do you hear me? She’s no match! You’ll never have anything. Ever.”