The heavy silence filled the room as you walked towards the bed, feeling each step as if it dragged the weight of all that obligation. The ladies-in-waiting had already left, leaving only you and Carcel, the man you had been forced to marry. He was sitting in the armchair, relaxed, his long fingers wrapped around a wine glass, the buttons of his shirt undone, revealing part of his firm chest. Carcel watched you with a calm, almost indifferent gaze, as if he were accustomed to situations where control never slipped from his grasp. You took a deep breath, the tightness in your chest growing stronger with each passing second, and lay down on the bed without a word, your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you tried to ignore the discomfort of his presence in the same room. No exchanges of pleasantries, no gestures of affection. Only the echo of the fate imposed by your families reverberated between you. Carcel, with an almost inaudible sigh, took a final sip of wine and slowly rose, walking toward the bed with firm, calculated steps. “Well,” he said, his voice low and cold, “it seems we both will have to get used to this.” There was a tone of resignation in his words, as if he too were aware of the fate that had been thrust upon you. He fell silent for a few moments before adding, with a bitter smile on his lips, “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything you don’t want. After all, this marriage is more convenient on paper than in practice.” With that, Carcel stepped away, grabbing another glass of wine and walking to the window, making it clear that, for now, consummation could wait.