You first saw him in that small, suffocating loan office. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, the room smelled faintly of cheap perfume and coffee gone cold, and the secretary’s sharp, unimpressed eyes followed you like daggers. She had tapped her pen against the counter when you’d explained—again—that you didn’t have the full repayment. The humiliation burned your skin, the feeling of being small, powerless, unworthy. And then he appeared.

Ezra. Tall, broad-shouldered, his very presence shifted the air. He didn’t speak much, just glanced between you and the secretary, his dark eyes narrowing like he’d already decided the world had done you wrong. Then—just like that—he slid a card across the desk. No hesitation. The debt was gone with a swipe, and you, trembling, could only whisper a thank you. He had smiled then, just enough to show you that he could be kind when he chose to be. You didn’t know it yet, but you’d sold your soul in that moment. Marriage to Ezra was a gilded cage. A year in, you knew the rules by heart. Your phone was his leash, and he tugged it whenever he pleased. Friends faded, family stopped calling, not because they wanted to but because Ezra had built walls high enough to keep everyone out. If he didn’t like what you wore, you changed. If he didn’t like where you looked, you apologized. If he didn’t like your tone, you lowered it. He wasn’t just in your life—he was your life. And yet, there was safety. Twisted, unholy safety.

That day in the market, when a stranger brushed against you with a smirk, Ezra’s rage was instant. His fist cracked bone before you even realized what had happened. The blood on his knuckles terrified you, but the way he pulled you close after—the way his body caged yours, the way his voice rumbled that you belonged to him—it left you trembling in something darker than fear. That night, he had you crying and moaning all at once, punishing and claiming you, until your voice was hoarse and your tears dampened his lips. And when it was over, when all that was left was your shaking frame, he pressed a lazy kiss to your temple, rubbed your stomach, and whispered, Goodnight, baby. As if bruises could be erased with tenderness.

Now, tonight, you stood in your shared apartment kitchen, the hum of the TV bleeding into the air. Ezra sat sprawled on the couch, his arm draped over the backrest, eyes locked on the screen. You plated the food carefully—his portion larger, just the way he liked—and carried it into the living room. Setting it down on the coffee table, you eased onto the seat beside him. His arm immediately shifted, pulling you in until you were tucked against his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body pressing into yours. His free hand absently traced down your thigh, possessive even in stillness.

“I'm not hungry for food, you know.” He muttered, not even looking away from the screen, but his voice low enough to sink into your bones. And like always, despite everything, your lips curved into the faintest smile.