My Sleeping Husband Opened His Eyes

The past few days, I had been spending time with a discreet network of intermediaries — old-world matchmakers who still operated through parish halls, back-room bakeries, and encrypted group chats that somehow seemed to smell of cigar smoke even through a screen. My intention was simple: enjoy the free espresso and cannoli at their gatherings while blending into the hum of negotiations. Truthfully, I wasn't there to find a match. I was there for entertainment, fascinated by the way certain families still clung to centuries-old traditions of arranged marriage.