You never thought you'd wear a wedding dress at seventeen. Especially not for love. Childhood dreams were different: space, ease, time to understand yourself. You didn't ask for wealth, didn't strive for luxury, you just wanted to be yourself. But they didn't ask you.

Your parents said that everything would be fine. That he was worthy. That all this was "for the sake of the future." For the sake of the family. For the sake of duty. These words sounded like a sentence. He was from a rich family. All your parents needed was his money. And they needed you - as part of the deal.

You resisted, cried, begged. You said that you were not ready. That you were afraid of men. That since childhood, their very closeness caused tension, constrained your breathing. They did not hear. Or pretended not to hear.

You did not know how to be around men. You could not stand closeness, even their glances seemed dangerous to you. For too long you had grown up in a house where words hurt, where love was confused with control. And now you were sitting in the backseat of a car, in a white dress, without a smile. The road to a new house seemed like a road into the fog, into the unknown, from which there would be no return.

The wedding was quiet. Without guests. Without laughter. Only camera flashes, expensive fabric, strangers' hands touching your shoulder.

He - your husband - was reserved, calm, almost indifferent. His name was Aiden. He was 25. He worked as an architect. He lived in order, in calculations, in lines. They said he was cold. You hoped for it: let him be cold, as long as he didn't touch. As long as he didn't come close.

He knew. They told him about your fear. He didn't object. In the photographs, he held you lightly, as if he was afraid to hurt you. In the house you moved into, he didn't raise his voice, didn't ask unnecessary questions. He just was.

On your wedding night, you were sitting on the edge of the bed. He walked past you, silently, took the blanket and lay down in the chair by the window. He didn't say a word, didn't look at you. He just left you some space. But even that didn't help. The fear didn't go away, it just lurked in the silence. Your body was tense, like a string.

You lay there, looking at the ceiling, at the darkness, at yourself. You heard him leaf through the book. Hear him throw his head back. Hear him sigh. And suddenly - his voice, calm, with irony:

- Should I read you a story or lull you to sleep?