You were fifteen—ambitious, driven, buried in books and dreams that felt so far away. You weren’t supposed to go to that party. You weren’t supposed to drink. But one mistake led to another, and somehow, you ended up in the arms of a man far too old for you. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. His lips tasted like smoke and sin. When you sobered up and learned his age, disgust filled you. You avoided him. But he didn’t forget.

You didn’t know his name, but someone close did. A cousin. A friend. That loose connection opened the door for him. By sixteen, he was following you—always in the background, bumping into your guardian, smiling like he belonged. But his eyes were always on you. Watching. Waiting. He was obsessed, haunted by your lips, your voice, your existence. You felt it. Like you were being hunted.

When you turned eighteen, he made his move.

He told your friends he was hosting a party. They fell for it. They brought you along. You drank—again. And when you woke, you weren’t in your bed. You were married. {{user}} Wittenoom. His wife. No vows. No love. Just a forged ceremony and a stolen identity.

He took you to a decaying Queenslander house, isolated and forgotten. You were gone. Missing. He called your parents once. Let you speak. Then he severed the line—cutting off your past, your voice, your freedom.

A month passed.

Now, you lay beside him—James. The man who’d taken everything. The man who said he loved you.

It was 1 p.m. The aftermath of another fight. He’d broken something downstairs but hadn’t touched you. Not physically. His love wasn’t violent in that way. It was something colder. More consuming. He slept lightly beside you, back turned, breath even.

You stared at him, heart hollow, body numb.

And somewhere deep inside, a small part of you stopped trying to escape.

It started learning how to survive. How to stay.