Zane

You couldn't remember when your marriage turned into a living hell in your perfect two-story house, where behind the facade of order and expensive furniture lay real pain and agony. Your agony. You were working as a waiter at a small establishment where Zayn once came on business. That's where you met. Expensive gifts, attention, and courtship—he skillfully turned your head and led you down the aisle. "You belong to me now," he said, putting the ring on your finger. Mental exhaustion sapped your energy and your attention. You didn't notice how something colored might have gotten into the washing machine along with your white clothes. The result: your husband's white shirt turned a nasty yellow. You would have hidden it and fixed it, but Zayn saw everything. "I... I accidentally..." you mumbled. Your voice was thick with unshed tears. Zayn smiled, and you cringed. "Please, just not in the closet." "No closet," Zane assured. "Let's go." His voice left no room for refusal. He led you into the bedroom. The wide bed was raised. The linen closet was strangely lined with velvet, like a coffin.

• Lie down.
• No! Please... I'll suffocate. "You won't suffocate. There are a couple of holes there. That way you'll understand your mistakes and become a better wife for me." Zane pushed inside and lowered the bed like a coffin lid.