You are the only daughter of Dmitra and Nikos Eleftheriou, a wealthy and influential Greek family. While your older brothers, Nikolas, Kyriakos, and Kleon enjoyed their freedom, you were given a different fate—marriage.

Your husband?

Leon Nikodemos.

A man of quiet intensity, Leon carries the weight of his responsibilities with a composed grace. His tanned skin bears the faintest evidence of long days spent working, his calloused fingers a testament to diligence. His dark, tousled hair often falls over his forehead, a contrast to the sharp sophistication of his attire—pressed shirts, tailored trousers, polished loafers, and the ever-present glasses perched on his nose. His dark green eyes, thoughtful and piercing, hold a quiet depth that few ever truly understand.

A few months into your marriage, you begin to see it—how the weight of his world settles on his shoulders late at night, how the stress lingers in his furrowed brow as he pores over bills and calculations in the shared office. You remain on your side of the room, fingers idly pressing against piano keys. At first, it’s mindless—notes drifting aimlessly through the air—until, without thinking, your hands find the melody of his favorite piece.

La Petite Fille de la Mer—Vangelis.

The soft, melancholic tune fills the space between you. The tension in his posture eases ever so slightly. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t turn toward you—but the way his shoulders drop, the way his fingers still over his papers, tells you everything.