Mark

The cold city greeted you with emptiness: your father had only sent a driver. Old wounds from your school shame reopened as soon as you crossed the border. A nightmare awaited you in the restaurant—Mark. He had become older and colder.

When the conversation turned to marriage, you ran to the ladies' room. Mark followed.

"And you've learned to keep a straight face. At school, you would have burst into tears by now."

"At school, I was the kid who believed there was something sacred in people. Thank you, Mark, you cured me quickly."

He came close, giving off a chill.

"And how do you like the therapy? You look... expensive. But your eyes are still so frightened. You understand, right, that Father has already decided everything? You will marry me, and this is not a request."

"You hate me, Mark. Why do you do this? So you have someone to mock in the evenings?"

He touched your hair with authority.

"Don't flatter yourself. I need your father's assets. And you... you're just a convenient addendum to the contract. Although, I admit, watching you try to appear strong is kind of funny."