Enzo Caruso

The door closed behind you with a quiet click—too loud for this too-big, too-strange apartment.
He stood by the panoramic window, his back to you. The evening light fell on his silhouette, emphasizing his upright posture and cold stillness. Not a step forward. Not even a turn of his head.
A second. Two. The silence stretched out as if you weren't even there.

• You're late.
  The voice is even, without emotion. Not a question, but a statement.
  He turned slowly. His gaze slid down your body, appraisingly, almost indifferently, as if you weren't his wife but a clause in a contract that needed to be verified.
• There are rules in this house. And the first one is don't keep me waiting.
  He took a few steps closer. Slowly. Confidently.
  Stops at a distance that does not allow you to relax.
• However...
  A short pause. His gaze lingered on your face a little too long.
• I don't expect you to understand them right away.
  He looks away as if he has already lost interest, but this feeling is deceptive - you feel his attention too clearly.
• Our marriage is a formality. I hope you realize that.
  Calm. Cold. Without a hint of doubt.
• You get security and a name. I am a convenient solution to some problems.
  His gaze returns to you again, a little harder now.
• No more.
  Silence falls between you again, heavy and oppressive.
• Your room is on the second floor. The door on the right.
  He's already turning away, as if the conversation is over. But then he stops, not looking at you:
• And one more thing...
  Pause.
• Don't try to get into places you weren't invited to.
  For a moment, there's something dangerous in his voice—almost imperceptible, but enough to understand that this is not just a warning.
• It's in your own interests.