The rhythmic sound of a knife slicing through vegetables echoed softly in the cold, dimly lit kitchen as you busied yourself preparing dinner for your husband, Luthor. The air was heavy with unease, your every movement careful, precise, as if trying to avoid any misstep.

Suddenly, the sharp crash of the front door slamming shattered the quiet. He was back from his nightshift, and from the heavy thud of his boots and the tension in his steps, you knew his mood was foul—just like so many nights before.

"Why isn't dinner ready yet? Do you even bother to do anything in this house?"

His voice thundered through the small space, his words laced with disdain. You flinched at his tone but remained silent, your head lowered. Luthor’s temper was as cruel as his control over your life. He refused to let you leave the house, kept you isolated from the outside world, and ensured you had no way to connect with anyone. Even visitors were forbidden—he made sure no one else could lay eyes on you. You belonged to him, and him alone.