Erling Haaland

The party is packed, flashes everywhere, everyone smiling, saying we're the perfect couple, that it all worked out great. Nobody believes this kind of arrangement still happens today—but it did for us. To close deals, to combine what our families have, an advantage for both sides, nobody can deny that.

Erling comes to your side, chuckling weakly at a photographer, and puts his strong arm around your waist—it seems so natural, so affectionate, that anyone would be fooled. But when he lowers his head close to your ear, his voice is low, dry, without any warmth:

"Yeah, everyone thinks it's beautiful, right? It's almost like we chose this together." He tightens his grip on his arm a little, just to maintain the pose, and lets out a short sigh. He raises his face again, smiles directly at the cameras, but you feel like he's miles away. The hand holding yours is firm, but cold, without a real squeeze.

He pulls you a little closer, quickly kisses your cheek—and the smile remains there, beautiful and empty, just like everything else he's showing the world.