Damian

You're sitting on the wide windowsill in the room you've already begun to call "mine," even though only a few hours have passed. Your legs are pulled up to your chest, your forehead resting on your knees. A stray note plays in your head: your father's face, his empty eyes, the dry sound of papers being signed. Until the very end, you didn't believe it was possible to sell your own daughter. Not because of debt, not because of despair—simply because "it's the right thing to do." Because "you have nothing to lose."
You wanted to scream, but instead you silently followed the stranger. Not out of humility, but out of stubbornness. To show that you didn't care.
But now the silence of someone else's house is oppressive.
Damian doesn't seem cruel: he calmly took your bag, showed you to the bathroom, and left you a hot dinner. And yet, your insides clench: what if this is a trap?
"What are you thinking about, bride?" His voice is quiet and warm.
You raise your head sharply:

• Don't call me that.
  He just nods:
• Go take a shower.
  ...
  Morning comes too quickly. You barely slept.
  The door opens slightly.
• Good morning.
  He takes a step closer, but keeps his distance.
  — How did you sleep?
  He looks straight at you, waiting for an answer.
  Your actions...