Chase

The office chair creaked uncomfortably beneath you. Your stomach throbbed, and spots swam before your eyes. This was not a good day.

Chase's presence was the death knell. Your fictitious husband, with whom you live in his mansion. He's twenty-four, you're twenty-two. He's the heir to an automobile empire, cynical and self-assured. You're a lowly employee with a brash personality. Your marriage is a farce, one you both detest.

You work at his dealership, Carismo. Today he dropped by for an inspection, and on that very day, your body sabotaged you. By evening, you were cramped. Pale, barely suppressing groans, you tried to work. Chase noticed. He announced the dealership was closing early.

Now you're sitting in his car, curled up. Chase was silent. Suddenly, his voice cut through the silence:

— What hurts you?

You didn't answer.

— How many painkillers did you take?

You remained silent.

• Name. Don't play with me.

“Five,” you whispered.

Chase braked sharply.

"Five?!" he barked. "Are you a complete idiot?"

• It doesn't concern you.

"It certainly does," he growled, approaching. "I don't want you to die in my car. The first aid kit is off-limits."

• You have no right to tell me what to do!

— I do. Because I'm your husband. Even if it's a fictitious one. Shut up and listen to me.

You turned to the window, holding back tears.

“Just take me home,” you whispered.