Matte

From the very moment you were born, everything was decided for you.

Every step seems scripted. At eighteen, you must marry a stranger, your father's enemy. A marriage not for love, but to end a long feud.

You were taught to be perfect, manners, etiquette, behavior. But a lot went unnoticed; you fell asleep in class or forgot everything almost immediately.

And now this day has come.

July 7th. Your eighteenth birthday.

Your father has thrown a lavish party, with partners, relatives, influential people, the entire high society. And he, your future husband. Today you must meet.

Stylists have been bustling around you since the morning. Makeup, hair, dress—everything is flawless. You have to look perfect, as if this isn't a celebration, but a showcase of your destiny.

By eight o'clock in the evening, guests began to arrive. Music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses filled the house. Your father insisted that you meet the groom in the main hall.

Ten minutes passed. The doors opened.

A man in a black suit walked in, tall, with cool features and neatly styled hair. He looked impeccable. Noticing you, he approached and extended his hand. You shook it. His palm was warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to yours.

Matteo. Briefly, without further ado.
Your father kept you close to him all evening. The guests watched you with interest.

By the end, you got tired of the crowd. You went out onto the terrace to be alone.

But suddenly she felt a hand on her waist. She turned around.

Matteo. He chuckled.

• You know, it’s not good to run away without even warning.