They call you a monster, and you discover early on that the word can live inside a whisper and still cut like shattered glass.
You angle your veil over the left side of your face, as though lace could conceal the birthmark stretching from your cheekbone to the corner of your mouth.
Inside Saint Bartholomew’s church, pity hums louder than the organ, disguised as prayer.
“Poor blind groom,” they murmur, and you despise yourself most for half believing it.
You believe it because it makes things easier.
If he cannot see you, then you never have to wonder what he thinks of what others see.
You don’t have to witness that fleeting shift in expression, the flicker of discomfort people try to mask, the courteous smile that never touches their eyes.
You can marry a gentle man and pretend it has nothing to do with your face.
You were raised mastering the art of vanishing in plain view.
You chose the back rows in school and learned how to tilt your hair just right.
In the market, voices dropped when you walked past, as though your skin carried misfortune.
Even your own mother avoided facing you fully in photographs, adjusting your chin or placing you half-hidden behind someone else.
In your town, cruelty and sympathy share the stage.
Sometimes they mock. Sometimes they sigh.
Either way, you shrink.
So when Mateo appears three months ago, white cane in hand and dark glasses shielding his eyes, everyone writes your story before you can speak.
A blind man—courteous, reserved—announces plans to open a legal consultancy in the provincial capital.
He speaks with steady assurance, like someone who has endured the worst and refused to grow bitter.
Your father sees him as an answer, the way some fathers see daughters: something to be arranged and resolved.
You convince yourself you’re choosing him for respectability.
But beneath that lie, you know the truth that tastes like humiliation.
You’re choosing him because if he truly cannot see, then your face doesn’t matter.
And not mattering has always felt close to safety.
The wedding day arrives wrapped in the quiet violence of tradition.
The church smells of wax and polished wood, as if someone tried to disinfect humanity.
The murmurs reach you before the altar does, each one settling on your shoulders like stone.
“Poor guy,” they repeat, and you want to turn and run.
When Mateo takes your arm, his grip is deliberate, not unsure.
He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t cling.
He leads you with a gentleness so unfamiliar your body barely knows how to accept it.
He leans close, speaking low enough for only you to hear.
“Breathe,” he says. “You don’t owe them anything.”
The words strike deeper than any insult.
No one has ever treated your existence like something you’re allowed to claim.
You swallow hard and move forward, one step at a time, toward vows you’re unsure you deserve.
At the altar, you sense the room studying you through the veil.
Your mother’s eyes shine with tears, yet her gaze shifts away from your cheek whenever it drifts too close.
Your father stands rigid, relieved, as though finalizing a transaction.
Mateo remains composed, and you cling to the belief that he cannot see what everyone else does.
The ceremony dissolves into haze.
Promises of love and honor drift by like smoke.
Your hands throb from clutching the bouquet, stems digging into your skin.
When you say “I do,” your voice feels borrowed.
The hotel suite that night is warm, hushed, too luxurious for someone like you.
You leave the lights off.
You keep the veil on longer than necessary.
You tell yourself it’s for romance, to stretch the magic.
But the truth is simpler.
You’re postponing the instant he sees you and regrets it all.
In the darkness, you sense Mateo step closer.
You flinch—and hate yourself for flinching, conditioned by years of other people’s reactions.
He brushes your chin with his fingertips and lifts it gently, as if seeking permission.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
Your stomach knots.
He shouldn’t say that.
Not if he’s blind.
“I’m not blind,” he whispers, and the room seems to tilt.
Your breath falters.
Your hands clutch the veil like armor.
“Then… why?” you ask, voice unsteady. “Why the cane? Why the glasses? Why… me?”
He exhales, close enough that you feel his warmth.
“Because I wanted them to stop staring at you,” he says, emotion thick in his voice.
“So you could breathe.”
Then he switches on the lamp.
Light spills across the room, golden and unfiltered.
You go still, because this is the moment you have feared your entire life: being fully seen.
Mateo looks directly at your face—at the birthmark, at the place where you learned to hide your happiness.
He doesn’t recoil.
He doesn’t angle his face away.
He doesn’t hunt for a “better” side.
He simply looks at you as if you are human.
And then he says, with a gravity that sends a chill across your skin, “And I’m hiding one more secret.”
Your heartbeat pounds so loudly you’re certain he can hear it.
A secret worse than pretending to be blind?
A secret that will twist this gentleness into something cruel?
You swallow hard.
“What secret?” you whisper.
Mateo’s jaw flexes.
He walks to the chair where his suit jacket hangs and slips a hand into the pocket, pulling out an envelope.
The paper looks official, thick, the kind that carries weight.
He places it on the bed between you, as though the truth needs room to breathe.
“I didn’t come to your town by chance,” he says.
“And I didn’t choose you because I couldn’t see.”
Your fingers hover over the envelope, shaking.
Old fear creeps up again—the fear of being selected for the wrong reasons, of becoming a story people laugh about later.
You steady yourself and open it.
Inside are documents marked with seals and signatures.
A legal notice.
A court record.
A name that tightens your throat because you’ve heard it murmured around town like a legend.
Your father’s name.
You look up sharply.
Mateo holds your gaze.
“I’m a lawyer,” he says. “A real one. And I’ve been looking into a case connected to your family for months.”
Your thoughts scatter.
“What case?” you ask, your voice barely there.
Mateo’s expression darkens.
“Your father didn’t just fear rumors,” he says. “He used them. He turned them into weapons.”
He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
“He’s been taking land from families who can’t defend themselves. Threats. Invented debts. People losing their homes because they can’t afford to fight.”
Cold spreads through you.
You want to deny it, yet something inside you recognizes the pattern.
The sudden new car. The unexpected renovations. The way your father’s smile widened when others seemed diminished.
“No,” you whisper. “That can’t be—”
Mateo leans closer, his tone steady.
“I’m not here to ruin you,” he says. “I’m here to stop him. And I needed someone inside that house—someone who could hear, see, confirm what the evidence already shows.”
Your chest constricts.
“So you married me to use me,” you say, and the words taste metallic.
Mateo flinches for the first time.
“Yes,” he admits, and the honesty cuts deeper than a lie.
“But not only that.”
He reaches for your hand slowly, pausing until you don’t pull away.
“When I saw you in the bakery,” he says, “the way people stared at you like you were something to endure… I wanted to set the whole town on fire.”
Your throat tightens.
“You didn’t even know me,” you whisper.
“I knew enough,” he replies. “I knew you’d been taught to apologize for existing.”
You look at him, caught between anger and relief and something you’re afraid to name.
Because the strangest truth is this: no one has ever defended you like this.
Not your mother. Not your father. Not your classmates.
Not even yourself.
Mateo continues, voice quiet.
“I pretended to be blind to redirect their cruelty,” he says. “I wanted them to stop dissecting you. To focus on me instead. To pity me, mock me. I could carry that. You’ve been carrying too much for too long.”
Your eyes burn.
“You lied,” you say, your voice breaking.
“I did,” he answers. “And I’m sorry. But I won’t apologize for seeing you as worthy.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, the papers resting in your lap, heart racing.
Outside, the city moves on, indifferent.
Inside, your world shifts.
“What happens now?” you ask.
Mateo’s gaze steadies.
“Now we decide what kind of woman you’re going to be,” he says.
“Not the one your town labeled. Not the one your father controlled. The one who chooses.”
The next morning, you walk back to your parents’ house with sunlight warming your skin and a heavier bag at your side.
Mateo walks next to you without the cane.
No glasses.
No act.
On the street, people stare openly.
Their expressions change as the story they cherished unravels.
Whispers travel like wind through brittle leaves: “He can see.” “He’s not blind.” “Then why did he marry her?”
Your chest tightens, old shame reaching for you.
Mateo’s hand brushes yours, steadying.
“You don’t owe them an explanation,” he murmurs.
Inside the house, your mother stiffens at the sight of Mateo’s uncovered eyes.
Your father’s smile falters, then hardens into suspicion.
“What is this?” he demands.
You swallow and step forward.
For the first time in years, you don’t turn your face aside.
You let them see the birthmark fully, uncovered, illuminated.
Your father’s eyes dart to it, instinctive disgust flashing before he masks it.
And something within you settles into calm.
Mateo places the envelope on the dining table.
“I’m here about the Pereira property seizure,” he says, his voice smooth as steel.
“And about the forged signatures connected to three other families in your district.”
Color drains from your father’s face.
Your mother’s hand rises to her mouth.
“What are you talking about?” she whispers.
Your father forces a laugh.
“You’re accusing me? In my own house?”
Mateo’s smile is faint and cold.
“In your own house,” he agrees. “In front of your daughter. In front of your wife. In front of the woman you taught to despise her own face so she’d never dare question your hands.”
The words crash into the room.
Your mother truly looks at you, and her eyes fill with something that might be regret.
Your father steps forward, anger snapping back into place.
“You,” he points at you sharply. “You’re letting a stranger disrespect me?”
You draw in a slow breath.
Then you answer with a steadiness that surprises even you.
“I’m letting the truth speak,” you say. “And for once, I’m not shrinking to make you feel tall.”
Your father’s expression twists.
“After everything I’ve done for you,” he spits.
You lift your chin slightly.
“You didn’t do things for me,” you say quietly. “You did things to hide me.”
Mateo nudges the papers nearer to your father.
“Sign here,” he says, “confirming you’ll appear in court. Or we proceed with the evidence we already filed.”
Your father’s fingers shake as he reaches for the documents.
He attempts to steady himself, to reshape this into a bargain, but the room is no longer his platform.
Because you’re standing there, completely present, and he can’t reduce you to half a person anymore.
He fixes you with a narrowed stare.
“You think you’re brave now,” he says. “Because some man chose you.”
Your stomach tightens, yet you hold his gaze.
“I’m brave,” you say, “because I’m choosing myself.”
Your mother’s sob cuts through the silence, sharp with realization.
She moves toward you, her hand hovering near your cheek as if she’s afraid to touch you the wrong way.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I thought… I thought I was protecting you.”
You swallow, your eyes stinging.
“No,” you say softly. “You were protecting the family’s comfort.”
Your father slams the pen onto the table.
“This is blackmail,” he snarls, though his voice trembles.
He understands what’s coming.
Within a week, the town’s narrative shifts.
Not because hearts soften, but because scandal is sweeter than cruelty.
Now the whispers aren’t about your face—they’re about your father’s crimes.
The same lips that called you a monster now call him a thief.
Court dates follow.
Families step forward, shaky but resolute.
Your father’s authority diminishes under scrutiny.
And your mother, for the first time, stands beside you in public without turning her eyes away.
Through it all, Mateo remains near—not hovering, not directing, simply there.
Some days you want to shout at him for the deception.
Some days you want to thank him for truly seeing you.
Most days, you carry both feelings at once.
One night, after a grueling hearing, you sit on the hotel balcony and watch the city lights.
You feel emptied out.
Mateo joins you and places a blanket around your shoulders without speaking.
“You still mad at me?” he asks gently.
You let out a short, bitter laugh.
“You lied your way into my life,” you say. “How could I not be?”
Mateo inclines his head, his gaze steady.
“You don’t owe me forgiveness,” he says. “But I want you to understand something.”
He hesitates.
“The first day I saw you, you were apologizing with your posture. The lie wasn’t about tricking you. It was about breaking the town’s obsession with your face.”
You look at him, your throat tightening.
“You could’ve just… told me,” you whisper.
“I tried,” he admits. “But I was scared you’d say no. And I couldn’t stand the idea of leaving you there, buried under their stares.”
The admission lands—imperfect, human.
You draw in a slow breath.
“You don’t get to rescue me,” you say quietly. “Not like I’m helpless.”
Mateo’s expression softens.
“I know,” he says. “I’m not asking to be your hero. I’m asking to be your partner, if you’ll let me earn it.”
Earn it.
That word matters.
Because all your life, people expected you to earn their basic decency.
You turn your face toward him in the light, uncovered.
“Then start,” you say.
Months later, the court rules against your father.
Properties are restored. Compensation is mandated.
The town pretends it always despised him, because hypocrisy is a local custom.
Your father receives his sentence.
Not as long as you believe it should be—never as long as the harm deserves—but enough to fracture his control.
The day he’s led away, he looks at you as if you’re the one who destroyed him, not his own decisions.
You don’t flinch.
Afterward, you step outside the courthouse and feel the wind brush your face like a gift you didn’t have to earn.
Reporters call out questions.
People stare again, but the stare has changed.
It’s no longer curiosity about your “flaw.” It’s recognition that you became someone they never anticipated.
Mateo stands beside you, steady.
He doesn’t tug you away, doesn’t conceal you, doesn’t perform.
He simply extends his hand.
You take it.
Back home, you remove the final veils you’ve worn for years.
You cut your hair the way you prefer, not the way that conceals you best.
You take photographs with your mother, and for the first time, she looks straight at you, tears shining in her eyes, unafraid.
One evening, you sit with Mateo at the kitchen table, documents spread out for the legal clinic you’re building together.
A place where the silenced can speak.
A place where shame doesn’t guard the door.
Mateo glances at you over the paperwork and smiles softly.
“You know,” he says, “the town used the word ‘monster’ because they couldn’t control what they didn’t understand.”
You nod, running your finger along the edge of a folder.
“And now?” you ask.
Mateo’s eyes meet yours, warm and clear.
“Now they’ll have to learn a new word,” he says.
You lean back, breathe out, and let it settle in your chest like a truth that finally fits:
You were never a monster.
You were a woman they tried to diminish.
And you lived long enough to grow anyway.
THE END
