CHAPTER 08

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

The car had barely stopped in front of the house when my father spoke.

“Helena, come with me to my office.”

It was obviously not an invitation.

It was a dry, direct order.

I found it strange.

My first instinct was to look at my mother. She was already getting out of the car in silence, adjusting her posture. She didn’t look at me. Likewise, she never did when she knew something was about to happen. I watched her for a second longer than I should have, waiting for anything—a gesture, a warning, or a silent plea for me to be careful.

Nothing.

She did nothing. As always.

I don’t know why I still expect any reaction from her.

The car door closed behind me, cutting off the little air I still had. The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet night.

The house was even quieter than usual. The staff had already withdrawn. There were no footsteps, no voices, not even the distant sounds from the kitchen. Only the noise of our movements and the minimal, strategic lighting—as if everything there had been designed not to welcome.

My father walked ahead with quick, calculated steps. At no point did he turn his head to check if I was following.

He knew I was.

The heels of my shoes echoed against the marble, exposing every step. The black dress still clung to my skin like an uncomfortable reminder of what I had been that night: displayed, evaluated, and approved. The fabric felt heavier now, as if it had absorbed every stare.

When we entered the office, he didn’t close the door immediately. He walked to the desk, removed his jacket, and hung it on the chair with excessive care. He loosened the buttons of his shirt. Slow movements. Calculated. As if preparing for a conversation he had rehearsed many times.

Only then did he close the door.

The click of the lock made my stomach tighten.

“Stay there,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the center of the room.

I nodded.

He opened one drawer. Then another. The sound of keys, metal, and paper being moved seemed designed to remind me exactly where I was. Each noise echoed louder than it should have, as if the silence itself were being used against me.

Finally, he pulled out a black folder.

Thick.

Heavy.

Sealed with two elastic bands.

He placed it on the desk and rested his hands on top of it, unhurried. His fingers stayed there for a few seconds before he spoke.

“This,” he said, “is what keeps this family standing.”

He didn’t look at me as he spoke. He simply removed the elastics and opened the folder.

I watched the documents, organized with almost obsessive precision. Labels. Seals. Official papers. Signatures. Nothing about it looked improvised.

My name appeared on one of the pages.

Printed.

A strange tightness formed in my chest, as if something had been taken from me without immediate pain.

I scanned the documents. I didn’t understand everything. But I understood enough.

Dates.

Territories.

Clauses.

“Dom Vittorio will take over old debts,” he continued. “Debts that could have cost far more than just money.”

He said it as if he were commenting on rearranging furniture. Without emotion. Without weight.

“In return, we offer stability. An alliance.”

He turned another page.

“And you.”

He didn’t say marriage.

He didn’t say daughter.

Likewise, he said, You

My throat went dry.

“You guarantee neutrality in future conflicts,” he explained. “You strengthen our position with families who were watching from a distance.”

A brief pause—almost imperceptible.

“Tonight, at the event, you were evaluated,” he said. “And approved.”

The word stuck with me.

Evaluated.

Approved.

The air felt heavier. My feet were rooted to the floor, but my hands trembled slightly at my sides. I had no strength to respond. No desire. Speaking there felt pointless.

“From now on, there are rules,” he continued, pulling out another sheet. “They’re not punishments. Just… necessary measures.”

Measures.

“You don’t go out unaccompanied. You don’t speak to anyone without authorization. You don’t use the phone freely.”

Each item was delivered in the same calm, almost administrative tone.

As if he were listing expenses on a spreadsheet.

“Your image is part of the agreement,” he said. “Any behavior outside expectations creates noise. Noise creates problems.”

I wanted to say I wasn’t an object. That I wasn’t a clause. That I wasn’t territory to be protected.

But the words wouldn’t come.

“Dom Vittorio doesn’t buy uncertainty,” he finished. “He buys guarantees.”

He closed the folder slowly, like someone concluding an important negotiation.

“Everything here has already been decided,” he said. “What remains now is proper behavior.”

He placed the folder back in the drawer and locked it.

The sound of the key turning was slow.

Final.

He stood in silence for a few seconds, as if checking whether he had forgotten anything. Then he looked at me. There was no anger. No hatred. Only conviction.

“You don’t need to agree,” he concluded. “You just need not to interfere.”

He gestured vaguely with his hand.

“You may go.”

I didn’t move right away.

My body took time to obey. My legs felt too heavy.

I took a deep breath and turned, leaving the office.

The hallway felt longer than before. Each step was heavy—not with exhaustion, but with the newly settled certainty that something inside me had shifted out of place. It didn’t hurt.

Not yet.

When I reached my bedroom, I closed the door with excessive care, as if silence were a new rule to be obeyed. I rested my forehead against the cold wood and stayed there for a few seconds, trying to organize thoughts that no longer followed any logic.

I didn’t cry.

Not only that, but I didn’t scream.

I did nothing.

Because I understood.

I hadn’t just lost my freedom.

I had lost the right to make mistakes.

Not only that, but I wasn’t a daughter.

I wasn’t a woman.

I wasn’t a person.

Likewise, I was a guarantee.

And guarantees don’t fail.

But for the first time since all of this began, a dangerous question formed in my mind:

What happens when a guarantee decides to break?