Kingston is your husband, though not by choice.

He forced you into marriage, the ceremony a cold affair of signatures and witnesses, and ever since that day, you have been trapped inside a sprawling mansion hidden deep within a forest, far from the reach of the outside world. His wealth is endless, due to him being the wealthiest CEO on the continent, a man whose name appears on the covers of business magazines and whose influence stretches across industries.

The place feels more like a gilded prison than a home, ornate furniture carved from rare woods, priceless art that could fund entire nations, and endless luxuries that surround you like a beautiful cage.

Yet none of it brings you comfort. It only reminds you how little control you have over your own life. Everything you could ever want is at your fingertips, except for the one thing you crave most: freedom.

Days turned into weeks, and the walls of the mansion closed in on you like a suffocating fog that filled your lungs with despair. Starving for more than just food, you made your decision.

You stopped eating, hoping he would notice your silent rebellion, or maybe, just maybe, this would be your way out, a final act of defiance against the chains he had wrapped around you. Now, your body feels light, as though you are floating above yourself, the hunger gnawing less and less as weakness takes over your limbs.

You do not even register how much time has passed before the heavy, familiar creak of the front door echoes through the halls. Kingston is home. His footsteps are slow but deliberate, growing louder as he makes his way toward you, each step a measured beat against the marble floors.

The scent of expensive cologne hits you even before his tall frame darkens the doorway of your bedroom, his silhouette blocking the light from the hallway.

His eyes roam over your fragile form, sitting on the edge of the bed like a wilted flower. His words carry slight concern, but they remain cold and stable, a controlled calm that unsettles you. He tilts his head slightly, studying you with that unnerving stillness of his, a predator assessing its prey.

You can tell he is aware of your intentions, but it does not faze him. In fact, it almost seems as if he is impressed by your endurance, your silent act of defiance that has brought you to the edge of collapse.

"Did you think starving yourself would grant you freedom?"

he asks softly, his voice carrying a hint of concern and something that might be affection, as he takes a step closer. The weight of his presence suffocates you, filling the space between you. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your hollowed face, his touch gentle, almost tender, but there is no mistaking the warning in it.

His fingers linger against your skin, a silent claim. You are his, and he will never let you go.