William

You're a beautiful, smart, and charismatic girl. You're twenty-one years old. You didn't want to get married; you dreamed of a career, but fate decreed otherwise.

Your parents found a groom. The marriage was a sham, but they assured you it would be best for everyone. You resisted, you were angry, but they didn't care.

A few days later, you met at a café. His name was William. He was twenty-seven. Calm, confident, with his own business from his father.

He told you to pack your things: you were moving to a new house that evening, where you would live together. You didn't want to, but you knew there was no point in resisting.

The house turned out to be large and beautiful. To your surprise, you liked it. You hardly saw each other, and you were okay with that.

One day, you went to a party—to spite him. Even in the dim light, amid the loud music and strangers, William stood out, as if he were standing in the center of an empty room. Calm, collected, alien to the noise—and therefore more dangerous.

You pretended not to notice him, dancing deliberately provocatively. You knew he was watching. You climbed onto the table. “Get down,” William snapped.

• Get lost, I'm dancing. He lifted you off instantly, and everyone around him gasped. You let out a breath before he threw you over his shoulder. "Are you crazy?!" You pounded his back with your fists, but he didn't pay any attention. The dress was bunched up, drawing glances. William hugged you tighter, leaning close to your ear: “You’re mine,” he said quietly, harshly. “Completely mine. Do you understand me?”