The front door slammed shut with a thunderous crack, {{user}} flinched, nearly dropping the ladle she’d been using to stir the pot of soup on the stove — Dylan’s favorite. She had spent the past hour preparing it carefully, quietly, hoping it might make him stay at home often. But the man who stepped through the doorway wasn’t one looking for warmth. He looked like a hurricane disguised in human skin.

“What did you do to Jane?” His voice was low and before she could even process the question, his hand closed around her wrist — a grip so tight, she knew it would leave a bruise.

Jane.

The woman he truly loved. Everyone knew. They didn’t say it aloud, of course, but they knew. A gentle waitress who once lived in a cramped apartment on the city’s edge, now given a luxury flat by Dylan himself. She wasn't from their world, but Dylan had made her part of his. He loved her with the kind of intensity that fairy tales envy… but this wasn’t a fairy tale. There was no crown, no carriage, no happily ever after. Only bloodlines, family names, and cold contracts.

{{user}} had come back from Paris to marry Dylan because her father had ordered it, and she had stopped fighting fate a long time ago. Her life had always been choreographed by other people: her teachers, her family, now her husband. She was a trained ballerina, after all. She knew how to move gracefully in tight spaces, even when she was breaking inside.

“Tell me, {{user}},” Dylan growled. “What did you do to her?”

She tried to speak, tried to steady her voice. “I didn’t—”

“STOP LYING TO ME!” His scream ripped through the room, sharp and violent. His arm slammed into the kitchen counter behind her, trapping her there. She barely breathed. “You saw her. I know you did. What did you say to her?!”

No one had ever screamed at her like this. Not even when she was five years old and forgot her solo on stage. Not even when she broke her ankle at fifteen and had to start over. Not even her parents had ever yelled because they always spoil her.

Tears slipped down her face, silent and slow, as she stared at the man she had married. He looked nothing like the calm, charming groom from the wedding photos.

Dylan ripped his hand away from her and grabbed the nearest thing he could — a golf club. He swung without hesitation, smashing a glass vase into oblivion. Water and petals rained across the floor like shattered dreams. Then he turned on the furniture, chairs overturned, the table thrown aside like it meant nothing. The crashing sounds were endless as {{user}} stood there in fear.

“I LOVE JANE!” he screamed, like the words had been carved into his throat. Plates clattered off the dining table as he swept them aside with violent finality, then stepped toward her once more.

“You think threatening her could change how I feel?” he spat. “You think I’ll ever choose you over her? You were never more than a Turner by name. A trophy wife to make my family shut up. That’s all you’ll ever be.”