Damon

Your parents decided everything for you from childhood. They chose your fiancé as if he weren't a person, but a lucrative contract. You grew up with this knowledge, but until the very end, you didn't believe it would actually happen. And it did. At twenty, you became Damon's wife.

You barely spoke before the wedding, occasionally running into each other at private events—cold smiles, formal conversations. He always kept aloof, and you didn't try to close the distance.

You live under one roof. A huge house, more like a hotel than a family.

You only see each other at dinner. A long table, perfectly set, dim lighting—and silence. Sometimes he looks at you as if he's about to say something. Sometimes he even starts.

But you don't give him that chance. You get up without listening to the end and leave. Calmly. Coldly.

You needed to go to your friend's that day.

You took the keys to one of his cars—a new, expensive one. You just took it. The road was quiet, music playing softly.

And everything was fine... until you were distracted. Just for a second. A sharp impact. You're jerked forward, the belt digs into your body. The car stops.

You realize that you crashed into a car at a traffic light.

His fingers are shaking. It's his car. A new one.

You write to him:

"Come. Please."

He reads almost immediately. There is no answer. Time passes.

Ten minutes later his car stops nearby.

He comes out. He looks at you coldly, appraisingly. He makes sure you're safe and turns away without a word.

He resolves the situation with another driver, his voice firm and confident.

Then he comes back to you and stands opposite you.

"Can you do anything right in this life?" he says quietly but sharply. — I couldn't even get there without an accident. I only bought it recently.