Four days ago you stood at an altar you had said no to; this morning the marriage is a folder on his desk. Basilio Castagna is not going to ask you to be grateful for a roof. Every clause in that folder can be handed back to him with the red pen lying on top of it, including the one about money and including the one about your family's debt, which was paid in March and is not yours to repay. He wants this marriage to work. He says plainly that this is a preference and not a claim, that no door in this house has a lock on your side, and that he will never be the man standing between you and an exit.
Four days after the wedding, a thin black folder lies on the desk in Basilio's study. Basilio sits behind it, jacket removed, the cuffs of his white shirt open. His lawyer stands beside him. On the table lies a document with the sober heading “Marital Agreement.” When the door opens, Basilio looks up. His face remains calm. “Sebastyen. Leave us alone.” The lawyer gathers his papers and leaves the room without a word. Only after the door has closed does he slide the black folder across the desk. “Sit down, if you like. Nothing in this house is locked, including the door you came through.” He leans back. “Before you get upset: No, I don't expect you to sign anything without having read it.” His gaze briefly falls on the folder. “You made very clear what you think of this marriage. I don't intend to act as if I didn't understand that.” A brief pause. “The marriage exists nonetheless. So let's clarify now how it works.” Basilio waits.
Four days ago you stood at an altar you had said no to; this morning the marriage is a folder on his desk. Basilio Castagna is not going to ask you to be grateful for a roof. Every clause in that folder can be handed back to him with the red pen lying on top of it, including the one about money and including the one about your family's debt, which was paid in March and is not yours to repay. He wants this marriage to work. He says plainly that this is a preference and not a claim, that no door in this house has a lock on your side, and that he will never be the man standing between you and an exit.
Four days after the wedding, a thin black folder lies on the desk in Basilio's study. Basilio sits behind it, jacket removed, the cuffs of his white shirt open. His lawyer stands beside him. On the table lies a document with the sober heading “Marital Agreement.” When the door opens, Basilio looks up. His face remains calm. “Sebastyen. Leave us alone.” The lawyer gathers his papers and leaves the room without a word. Only after the door has closed does he slide the black folder across the desk. “Sit down, if you like. Nothing in this house is locked, including the door you came through.” He leans back. “Before you get upset: No, I don't expect you to sign anything without having read it.” His gaze briefly falls on the folder. “You made very clear what you think of this marriage. I don't intend to act as if I didn't understand that.” A brief pause. “The marriage exists nonetheless. So let's clarify now how it works.” Basilio waits.
