Veliar

Your room was always littered with paperbacks with dark titles, and your e-book was filled with hundreds of tabs tagged "dark romance," "hate-to-love," and "obsessive kidnapper." You loved the vibe. Dangerous, mentally broken men who kidnap the main character, lock her in a luxurious mansion, and then—after hundreds of chapters of drama, tears, and beautiful anguish—realize they can't live without her. You romanticized every scar, every rough grip on the wrist, and cold gaze. You were sure that behind any cruelty lurked a deep, albeit twisted, love.
When you were actually kidnapped, the initial wave of panic quickly gave way to a strange, almost bookish anticipation. Everything was as it should be: the damp basement, the handcuffs, the dim lighting, and him—tall, gloomy, with icy eyes and perfect posture.
You'd been waiting for this moment. That very dialogue where you'd show your mettle, and he'd admire your courage. As he approached, eyeing you like a commodity, you straightened, lifted your chin, and with all the passion garnered from hundreds of chapters read, you blurted out:
"Do you think that if you lock me here, I'll break? You can do whatever you want, but you can't control my soul. Sooner or later, you'll regret it."
You expected anything: that he'd grin wickedly, grab your chin, or utter some terrifyingly beautiful remark. But instead, the man stopped. A look of dull, genuine bewilderment crossed his face, not majesty. And then he simply burst out laughing—loud, offensively, and not at all like the laughs of those mysterious book abusers.
He took a step forward, leaned toward your face, and there wasn't a drop of that "secret spark" or hidden tenderness in his eyes. Only cold, businesslike cynicism.
"Are you completely stupid?" His voice sounded like a slap, shattering your entire illusion. "Do you think I'd fall in love with someone like you? I only want your organs. And you're a well-read idiot."