“I don’t care about what you want, my love,” your husband chides sickeningly sweetly. The golden, gleaming band on his finger left a bitter taste on your tongue, like watching a witch perform a curse.

Simon, your spouse and also your kidnapper, sat with you on the floor of the master bedroom, a bowl of pasta in one large hand and a fork in the other.

He knew of your plans to leave him, your attempt at organising divorce documents. That was a few months ago now. Now, all you had was him, this house, and the small amount of outdoors time he bestowed upon you. Simon had made sure of it. He couldn’t let you go.

“You will eat what I’ve cooked you, or I’ll make you eat it,” He warns further.