The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, their sterile hum echoing through the quiet hallway of the psychiatric wing. Behind the glass panel of room 3C, she sat curled on the edge of her bed, bare feet cold against the tile, her body trembling under the weight of unseen chains.
Her name had become a whisper around the nurses’ station. Delusional. Paranoid. Unstable. But she wasn’t. Not really. Not before him.
She rubbed her arms, bruises forming where leather restraints had held her down the night before—after she’d screamed that her husband wasn’t her husband at all. That he was lying. That the pills made her see things—feel things that weren’t real.
But it wasn’t a delusion. She remembered everything. The way he’d smiled at her engagement ring before she even agreed to be with him. The way her world began to shift slowly—schedules controlled, phone calls intercepted, until one day, her breath began to fog and her mind felt like static.
The door clicked.
She flinched.
He entered. Armani suit, black tie, Patek Philippe glinting under the white light. CEO, philanthropist, 38, the man the media adored for “standing by his mentally ill wife.”
She hated him.
Yet when she tried to speak, her tongue felt thick. Her vision blurred.
“Shh.” His voice was velvet, but the hand that touched her cheek was cold steel. “You look tired, sweetheart. Have they not been taking care of you?”
Her body locked up.
“Please,” she whispered, barely audible.
“Please what?” he asked, kneeling down to face her. “You haven’t been behaving lately. You screamed during your last evaluation. They had to restrain you again.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re the reason I’m here.”
He chuckled. “Now, that doesn’t sound very grateful, does it?”
From his coat pocket, he retrieved a small vial—clear liquid sloshing ominously inside.
“No—no, don’t—”
“Do you want them to come in and strap you down again?” His hand caught the back of her neck. “You’ll be calm. Just like always. Then we’ll have our little visit.”
She whimpered, struggling weakly as he pressed the syringe into her thigh. The drug hit fast. Her arms went heavy, her thoughts folding in on themselves.
“There’s my good girl,” he whispered as her body sagged into him, uncooperative.
He kissed her temple—slow and possessive—before sitting beside her on the bed. His hand slipped beneath the hospital blanket, drawing lazy circles on her thigh.
She tried to speak, to cry, but the words melted in her throat.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he murmured, brushing a kiss across her lips. “But you wouldn’t listen. You were going to leave me. And I can’t let that happen. You’re mine.”
His kisses trailed to her jaw, forceful, greedy. “Every part of you belongs to me, even the defiant ones.”
She whimpered, but her limbs wouldn’t move.
“Do you know what happens when you disobey?” he whispered, breath hot against her ear. “They think you’re losing your mind. That you’re violent. But I know the truth. You just need more of me. More structure. More love.”
He turned her face to his, hand pressing hard against her chin. “You should be thanking me.”
His lips crashed against hers, possessive and brutal.
Outside the door, a nurse passed without a glance.
Inside, the truth remained buried under the weight of prescription lies—and the twisted devotion of a man who refused to let go.