The morning felt heavier than the night before.
We sat across from each other at the breakfast table.
The house was quiet—too quiet.
The kind of silence that waited to be shattered.
I was the one who broke it.
"This marriage," I said calmly, "was never real."
Leonardo didn't move.
Didn't look up.
"My father married me off to you to protect me," I continued.
"On paper, it worked. But standing beside you…"
I let out a slow breath.
"I'm more exposed. More vulnerable."
His eyes lifted then.
"I don't want this anymore," I said.
"I want it to end."
The chair scraped against the floor.
In a second, he was standing.
In another, he was in front of me.
His hand came down on the table—hard.
Not touching me.
But close enough to make my pulse jump.
"You don't get to decide that," he said quietly.
"Not alone."
I stood up, anger rushing in before fear could.
"This was never love," I snapped.
"You don't get to cage me and call it protection."
His gaze darkened.
In two strides, he closed the distance.
His hand went to my waist.
Firm.
Unavoidable.
My back hit the wall.
"Careful," he said, voice low, controlled.
"You're forgetting who you're married to."
I met his eyes.
Refused to look away.
"I didn't choose you," I said.
His grip tightened—just enough to make his point.
"Whether you chose me or not," he said, leaning closer,
"you're mine."
My breath caught.
"If you're standing here as my wife," he continued,
"you're lucky it's me."
I laughed bitterly.
"Lucky?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
"Because it could've been someone else."
His face was inches from mine now.
"At least with me," he added,
"there's a chance I might love you."
The words hit harder than his grip.
The room went still.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us backed down.
And for the first time, I understood something terrifying—
This wasn't just a marriage.
It was a battle.
And neither of us planned to lose.