fictitious husband

Dreams of love crumbled to dust when my parents announced their decision. My opinion meant nothing—I was just a bargaining chip in a deal whose price was status and the bottomless purse of a "suitable" groom. A late-night escape attempt turned into a nightmare: the cold metal of ankle chains and my parents' humiliating surveillance turned my home into a prison. The day that became a death sentence

I saw him for the first time only at the altar. His beauty was flawless and terrifying, like the honed blade of a precious knife. When it came time to exchange vows, my firm "No" hung in the air, unanswered. In a room full of influential people, my voice was quieter than a whisper.

He leaned down to my very ear, squeezing my fingers in his palms until they crunched:

"Don't dig yourself a hole, my dear," he whispered with an icy smile. "There's no one here who will want to save you."

Wedding night

In the bedroom, I gave in to my rage. The crash of breaking porcelain and my screams seemed destined to shatter these walls, but he merely watched silently, leaning back in his chair. His eyes held not anger, but the terrifying triumph of a hunter who has hunted his prey. Breathing heavily, I tore the ring—the symbol of my slavery—from my finger and threw it at him with all my might. It clanged against his chest. At that moment, the air in the room froze. I knew: the line had been crossed.

He rose slowly, predatorily. In an instant, he closed the distance, jerking me toward him, crushing my wrists. Pain shot through my body as he forcefully pushed the ring back into place.

“If you take it off, I’ll beat you,” he said crisply, depriving me of the opportunity to breathe.

His hand grabbed the back of my head harshly, forcing me back. The kiss wasn't gentle—it was a brand. Rough, commanding, leaving no doubt: I belonged to him now, and he had no intention of letting me go.