CHAPTER 06

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

I was bored.

Normally, I don’t wander around the house. I prefer the comfort and silence of the bedroom where I sleep. I won’t call it mine anymore, because nothing here belongs to me.

But that day, I didn’t want to stay locked away. I was restless. I couldn’t stand thinking about—obsessing over—the absurd idea of that marriage any longer.

So I decided to walk through the house, to pass the time.

I crossed the hallway of the forbidden doors. I was never allowed to enter any of them—that’s why I named it that. As I passed in front of my father’s office, I heard his voice through the door. Firm. Satisfied.

“One week is enough. The dress will be custom-made. Nothing excessive. The Dom doesn’t like female ostentation.”

Without thinking, I walked into the office without knocking.

I shouldn’t have done that.

But I did.

My father slowly looked up, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. The phone was still in his hand.

"A week for what?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

He took a deep breath and calmly ended the call.

"For your wedding," he replied simply.

The word hit me like a blow.

"I didn't agree to this."

He stood up.

"You don't have to agree to anything."

I took a deep breath. My heart was pounding, but I kept my voice steady.

"I'm not going to be a part of this."

His expression changed. It became colder. More severe.

"The preparations start today," he said, completely ignoring what I had just said. "You will help. Your mother will be there, along with the women of the family."

"No."

I clenched my fists, trying to contain my anger.

Why did he insist?

Why was my voice never heard?

Why didn't my wishes matter?

It was my life.

I didn't even notice when he approached me. The gesture was automatic.

Another slap. Harder than the one the night before.

He stared at me for a few seconds, as if calculating how much I deserved to be hit this time.

"Don't make me repeat myself," he said quietly.

"I'm not going to pretend this is normal," I replied. "I'm not going to sit with smiling women while they choose flowers for my wedding to a sixty-year-old man."

Another slap.

My body was thrown to the side. I hit the bookcase. The pain exploded in my shoulder before it even reached my face.

“You will,” he said, stepping closer, “because this is how it works. Because all of them go through this. Because none of them had a choice.”

I held back the tears. Swallowed the taste of blood.

“I’m not all of them.”

He smiled. Brief. Cruel.

“That’s exactly what you are.”

Before I could say anything else, he grabbed my neck firmly. He didn’t squeeze—he just held me there.

“Now get out of my office,” he murmured, “and don’t come in here without permission again.”

I nodded quickly. As soon as he released me, I left, almost running.

In the hallway, the air felt heavier. The walls are narrower.

I regretted leaving my room. If I had stayed there, I would have avoided another assault. Another breakdown.

I took a deep breath.

As I was about to go upstairs, the front door opened. The women of the family came in.

Wives. Widows. Daughters. Sisters-in-law.

All tied to the mafia by bonds that never break. All dressed in restrained elegance, discreet jewelry, and perfect posture. Women are trained to smile while swallowing their own will.

Before any of them could speak to me, I rushed upstairs, avoiding eye contact.

I wasn’t going to take part in that.

I locked myself in my room and stayed there for the rest of the day.

(…)

The water jug was empty, and thirst forced me to leave the room.

I went downstairs hoping the women had already left.

But they were still there.

I heard low laughter. The clinking of teacups. Comments floated through the living room as if they were discussing some casual event.

"Sixty years old, but still very powerful," said one of them. "A privilege."

"Power is what matters," replied another. "Love doesn't sustain a marriage."

"She'll learn," commented a third. "They all do."

I closed my eyes.

I crossed the room feeling their eyes on me. Evaluating. Curious. Some, almost envious.

"She's beautiful," said one. "Young. Dom will like her very much."

"She's lucky," commented another. "Few have this chance."

My mother sat at the head of the table. Hands folded in her lap. Head lowered. The same gesture as always. The gesture of someone who learned not to take up space.

“You should be here,” she said, without looking at me.

“Should I?” I asked. “To choose the color of the flowers for my captivity?”

Some of the women exchanged glances. Others pretended not to hear.

“Don’t talk like that,” my mother murmured. “It only makes things worse.”

“Worse than they already are?”

She sighed.

“It’s an honor,” she said. “You’ll understand with time.”

One of the women approached and touched my arm with an intimacy I hadn’t allowed.

“I married an older man too,” she said, smiling. “At first it’s scary. Then you get used to it.”

“Used to what?” I asked. “The disgust or the silence?”

Her smile faltered for a second. Then it returned—trained.

“To the life they gave us.”

I looked around.

None of those women looked truly alive.

“I’ll never get used to this,” I said firmly.

She lowered her gaze.

They always do.

I went to the kitchen, filled the water pitcher, and returned to my room without looking at anyone.

As soon as I entered, I took a deep breath and sat on the bed.

The door flew open.

My father entered.

He never came into my room.

“You ruined the day,” he said. “You embarrassed your mother.”

“I didn’t take part in anything.”

He closed the door.

“Exactly.”

The slap came without warning. Then another. And another.

“You are not special,” he said between blows. “You’re not different. You will marry. You will smile. Furthermore, you will obey.”

I collapsed onto the floor.

He crouched down until he was at my level.

“And if you keep resisting,” he murmured, “you’ll learn the hard way.”