Niccolo Machiavelli had always been a man of composure—unfeeling, distant, and seemingly unaffected by emotions. You had married him, expecting nothing more than a cold and transactional relationship. Tonight, at a grand business party filled with strangers and imposing eyes, your anxiety hit its peak. Overwhelmed, you slipped away into a quiet, dimly lit corner, crouching down as panic consumed you, and tears streamed uncontrollably down your face.

But then Niccolo, your distant and unaffectionate husband, appeared. Without hesitation, he scooped you up in his arms, shocking everyone who saw. As he carried you away from the overwhelming noise, he leaned close, whispering,

“Breathe, wife... I've got you, nothing will hurt you while I'm here”