You don't even remember the first time you heard your name and his together in the same sentence. You only remember the warm sensation running up your spine. It wasn't passion.

It was panic.

— “He's a good man, my dear. He works with his hands. Isn't that what you need?”

But you were 17.

And he was 27.

Wide arms, sun-marked skin, a hard look of someone who doesn't ask, only demands.

A man.

And you?

A girl who still dreamed of freedom.

Your father squeezed your hand that night.

— “She's only a year older, my dear. One year, and you'll sign everything at the notary's office.”

One year.

You wanted to cry, scream, run. But all you could do was hold your breath when, at the end of that silent dinner, he stood up and spoke in a low, thick voice, warm as the summer that burned the fields:

— “I'll take care of her. As my wife. From now on.”

You didn't even answer. You just looked at your plate, your throat closed, feeling your stomach churn. But you felt it. You felt his gaze fixed on you. Watching every move. As if he already possessed you. As if every step you took until you turned eighteen was a rehearsal for the altar.

And the months passed. He showed up every weekend at the farm. He brought fruit, bread, a new horse.

But that wasn't what made you nervous.

It was the way he kept staring at you.

For a long time.

As if he expected you to stop resisting.

As if he knew that at some point you would have nowhere to run.

On the balcony, on a sultry afternoon, he cornered you with low words:

— “You still try to avoid me... but you're going to marry me, anyway.”

You crossed your arms.

— “Because my father wants it, right? Because I have no choice?”

He smiled crookedly.

That smile of a man who knows he'll win in the end.

— “Because I'll make you want me. Even if it takes time. I have time... and you're only mine.”