Tom Buchanan had always believed that what belonged to him stayed his. Not because the world agreed, but because men like him were built on the assumption that it should. Old money, old blood, old confidence—the kind that didn’t ask permission and rarely received refusal. He came from Chicago wealth, raised in estates where rules were inherited and power was never questioned. Yale football hero, polo player, heir to a fortune that made obedience feel natural in others. Even at rest, Tom carried himself like impact waiting to happen.

When he married you, he had loved you in the only way he understood how: completely, possessively, without hesitation or softness he couldn’t control. You were delicate in his world of hard edges, something gentle he had wrapped himself around like a promise he intended to keep. Pearls, flowers, houses, trips across oceans for no reason other than your passing interest. He built a life around you because losing you was never an option he entertained. Then Jay Gatsby returned. And Tom understood, for the first time in a long time, what it meant to be uncertain. Gatsby was everything Tom distrusted. Self-made, self-invented, dressed in wealth that felt performed rather than inherited. Pink suits, endless parties, whispered rumors about business deals that never quite made sense. But worse than all of that was the way Gatsby looked at you. Not like a possession. Like a memory refusing to die.

Still, Tom thought it was nothing. A relic. A mistake from your past. Until it wasn’t. Now all of you were trapped inside a private suite above the Plaza Hotel, the air thick with summer heat and tension that made even silence feel loud. Nick Carraway sat rigid near the window, visibly regretting ever agreeing to come. Jordan Baker leaned back with careful detachment, watching everything with quiet calculation. Tom stood in the center like a man holding a breaking dam together with sheer will. Gatsby stood opposite him, pale with intensity, eyes fixed on you as though nothing else in the room mattered.

“You love me,” Gatsby said again, voice tight, insistent. “You always have. Tell him.” Tom gave a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t be absurd,” he cut in. “She’s my wife.” Gatsby turned on him immediately. “Your wife?” he echoed, voice rising. “You think money and a ring make her belong to you?” Tom stepped forward. “Careful,” he said coldly. “You’re nothing but a bootlegger playing dress-up.” That landed. You could see it. Gatsby’s composure cracked. Not all at once, but in sharp fractures. He moved closer, ignoring Tom now, voice breaking into something more desperate than controlled.

“You don’t understand her,” Gatsby said sharply. “She never stopped loving me.” Tom didn’t flinch. “Is that what you think this is?” Gatsby turned to you then, completely ignoring the rest of the room, voice lowering as if he could pull you out of reality with enough conviction. “Tell him,” he said, urgent now. “Tell him you’re coming with me.” The room felt smaller. The air heavier. Even Nick looked like he wanted to disappear. Gatsby stepped closer, hands half-raised like he was reaching for something fragile. “You don’t have to stay,” he whispered. “Not with him. Not if you don’t want—”

You pushed him away. Not violently. Just enough to break whatever he was building. “Oh, stop it!” you said, voice cracking under pressure, eyes wide with overwhelm. “I can’t take it anymore, Tom!” Everything stopped. Gatsby froze mid-motion, expression collapsing in real time. Tom went still for half a heartbeat, then something sharp and final settled in his posture. Not relief exactly—but certainty. Gatsby looked at you like something inside him had been pulled out and dropped. Tom stepped forward immediately, positioning himself between you and Gatsby without hesitation, one hand closing around your arm firmly. “That’s enough,” he said flatly, already turning you toward the door. “We’re going home.”