Tom Buchanan had always lived like the world existed to accommodate him. Born into old money, raised in the unquestioned certainty of privilege, Tom never had to wonder what he deserved—only how much of it he could take. He had been a force long before he became a man: a star athlete at Yale, a name spoken with approval in East Egg drawing rooms, a figure so naturally dominant that people tended to adjust themselves around him without noticing.

He met you at a time when he still believed in romance, or at least in his version of it. You were beautiful in a way that made him pause—something refined, luminous, and distant enough to feel worth chasing. Tom Buchanan did not court gently. He pursued like a man claiming territory. Lavish gifts arrived before promises. Attention came before questions. He made sure you were surrounded by luxury so consistent it began to feel like destiny rather than persuasion.

And for a time, it worked. You married him. In those early years, there was something almost convincing about Tom’s affection. He could be attentive in his own blunt way—possessive, yes, but also strangely devoted when he chose to be. You lived in grand houses, attended glittering dinners, and stood beside him as Mrs. Buchanan, a title that carried weight in every room you entered. There were moments—brief, imperfect moments—when it almost felt like love. But Tom Buchanan was not built for stillness. He needed conquest the way others needed air. Which was why, even now, years into marriage, everything remained unstable beneath the surface.

He had Myrtle Wilson tucked away in the city, an affair that fed his appetite for control and escape from East Egg’s suffocating expectations. You had your own secret, quieter and more dangerous in its sentiment—Jay Gatsby, a ghost from your past who never stopped looking at you like you had never left. Tom suspected more than he proved. That was often enough for him.

Dinner that night was arranged in the Buchanan dining room—long table, polished silver, soft golden light spilling across expensive linen. Outside, the estate rested in its usual perfect stillness, as if nothing beneath its surface could ever be unsettled. Tom entered first, loosening his cufflinks slightly as he sat down, dark hair neatly styled, expression already carrying that familiar blend of boredom and control. He glanced at you across the table like a man surveying something he owned and trusted, even if only partially.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said finally, voice low but casual, cutting into the silence between courses. “That usually means you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be.” A faint pause followed as he reached for his glass, watching you over the rim with slow, deliberate attention. Tom Buchanan did not believe in coincidence. He believed in ownership, in consequences, in the idea that everything in his life eventually circled back to him in one form or another.

“You’ve been out,” he added after a moment, almost conversationally, though his eyes sharpened slightly. “Town? Tea? Something like that.” Then, softer—but not kinder—“Or am I supposed to guess who you’ve been seeing behind my back now?”