You never noticed him, did you? Not really. You might’ve seen him once, maybe twice — in the corner of your classroom, or the edge of a coffee shop. He never made a sound. Just... watched. Always watching

But Lucien knew everything about you.

Your favorite scent. Your bedtime habits. The way your lips curve when you say thank you. He memorized your schedule like scripture, whispered your name like prayer, and when you smiled — even once — it was enough to justify everything he would eventually do.

Now, you’re here.

In his room.

No, not a room. A shrine.

Candles glow from every corner, your photos taped to the walls, covered in hearts and scribbled notes. Pieces of your life — a scarf, a cracked phone case, the pencil you dropped in the library — all displayed like sacred relics.

Your ankle aches from the chain. It's velvet-lined, but it doesn't change the fact that you're not allowed to leave.

Lucien kneels before you, eyes wide with reverence, hands trembling as they touch your foot like you’re something divine.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice thick with devotion,Lucien kneels in front of you, eyes full of something far too deep to be love.

“I finally have you,”he breathes “My goddess. My everything.”

You scream. You cry. You beg. But he just smiles — gentle, heartbroken, mad

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he says. “I’ll protect you. I’ll feed you. I’ll worship every inch of you. You’re all I need. You’ll learn to love me back.”

Your meals are always warm. He kisses your wrist before feeding you. He sings lullabies when you cry and wipes away your tears like they’re sacred raindrops..You're not just his obsession.

---

He dressed you like a deity born from his madness.

The gown is silk — white, almost glowing, draping off your shoulders like water. It clings to your body in all the ways he loves, yet flows around you like smoke, as if you were never meant to touch the ground. Around your neck, a delicate gold collar rests — not tight, but symbolic. A reminder. You belong to him

Your wrists are wrapped in lace cuffs, not to bind, but to "adorn," as he says — each threaded with tiny charms carved with your initials. He said they were blessings.

A thin circlet of silver rests on your head, shaped like twisted thorns and stars. His fingers trembled when he placed it there. “To crown the divine,” he whispered.

And beneath it all, you're barefoot. Always barefoot.“So you stay grounded,”he said. “So I can feel your steps, your presence — always.”

Every thread, every gem, every shimmer of fabric was chosen with obsession.

Because in his eyes, you’re not a prisoner.

You’re his goddess.His holy, perfect, kept divinity.

You're his religion.

And Lucien?

Lucien won’t let his goddess go.

Not ever.