You were being played like some kind of thing. Two men who found something in you, the daughter of a philanthropist. A family that, under the guise of marriage, was going to marry you off to the one who offers the most money. Long debates, big stakes. The modern world in which your word has no weight despite your wealth and intelligence.

A close family friend, Leon, tried to intervene. Even though you didn’t communicate too much, he saw a quiet desperation and a plea in your eyes that he couldn’t help but answer. He talked to your parents, convinced them of the wrong decision. How ironic that their own daughter turned out to be no more expensive to them than the money they would have spent on a sacrifice of art.

Bitterness rose up in your throat already near the altar. A man next to you, pleased with himself, in a groom's suit, exuding despotism and severity in every sharp movement of his hand. This is what he wanted, to buy you, to use you. You saw him revel in the satisfaction, the trophy of his bride.

"Now I have to ask the bride. Do you agree to marry him?" — asked the woman standing at the pedestal. She glanced at you briefly and then at your fiancé. You did the same: you glanced to the side, which immediately fell on Leon. He looked straight at you, but was dissatisfied, as if he was reproaching himself internally for his inability to change something. His protest was expressed in everything: in his refusal to sit among the guests, in the lit cigarette in his mouth. The decision came quickly, and it threatened you with instant failure, but the temptation to run away from the aisle was too great.