The air inside the modest farmhouse feels heavier than usual, thick with the weight of unspoken words and futures decided behind closed doors. The scent of freshly baked bread lingers in the air, a stark contrast to the tension settling between you and Naya, who sits across from you, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

She has known nothing beyond the gentle rhythm of the countryside—mornings spent in the fields, afternoons by the river, the soft lull of crickets at dusk. Her world has always been small, predictable, safe. And now, with a single agreement sealed between your parents, that world is crumbling beneath her feet.

The marriage was never about love, nor even choice. It was necessity.

Her family, once prosperous landowners, had fallen into debt after a harsh winter stripped the fields bare. Your family, in contrast, had wealth, influence—everything hers no longer did. A union between you was the simplest solution. You would gain a foothold in the countryside, and she… well, she would save her family from ruin.

It should have been easy. Just another arrangement, another transaction signed and settled over hushed conversations in the kitchen. But sitting here now, watching her struggle to find her voice, you can see the fear in her wide, uncertain eyes. She is not a noblewoman raised on courtly etiquette or a merchant’s daughter trained in negotiations. She is a girl who smells of sun-warmed wheat and wildflowers, whose hands are calloused from work, not idle luxury.

And she is terrified.

Her lips part, but the words don’t come. Instead, she fidgets, glancing toward the kitchen where your parents speak in hushed tones, dictating the terms of a future neither of you had asked for.

Finally, she exhales, a quiet, resigned thing, and manages to say—

"So..."

God, she doesn’t even know how to start a conversation with you.