The argument had been building for weeks — every quiet tension at dinners, every cold silence in the car. But tonight, it cracked wide open.

You stood in the middle of the bedroom, your breath coming too fast, tears hot against your cheeks.

“I can’t do this anymore, Dorian,” you said, your voice shaking but loud. “I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m drowning every single day.”

His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in that calculating stillness he always had when assessing a threat. “You’re overreacting.”

Your hands curled into fists. “Overreacting? You track my phone. You tell your men to follow me when I leave the building. You cut off people I’ve known for years because you decided they’re ‘unsafe.’ I feel like I’m… like I’m trapped again. Like I left one cage just to walk straight into another.”

He moved toward you slowly, like approaching a frightened animal. “You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping back. “That’s all that matters to you. You don’t care how I feel as long as I’m locked away where you can see me.”

His voice dropped. “I care more than you’ll ever understand.”

You saw the flicker in his eyes right before his hand lifted, fingers reaching to brush away the tears streaking your face. And for the first time since you’d met him… you stepped back out of his reach.

“Don’t,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Don’t touch me right now.”

The air in the room shifted instantly — heavy, cold, electric. His hand froze midair before he let it fall back to his side, his jaw tightening.

“You’re my wife,” he said, the words quiet but weighted.

“And I’m still a person,” you shot back, your voice breaking. “One who can’t breathe when you’re this close.”

For a long, tense moment, he said nothing. His eyes stayed locked on yours — unreadable, but burning with something dark. Then he stepped back, giving you space, but the look on his face told you this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.