You met Cadence Harrley on a rainy Tuesday in New York.

You were late for your gallery shift, soaked and flustered, when he walked in—dripping wet, holding your dropped coffee. “I think this is yours,” he said, smiling like he had nowhere else to be. You didn’t even recognize him at first, not until your coworker whispered, “That’s Cadence Harrley.”

From then on, he kept coming back. Always soft-spoken, curious. He asked about your favorite movies, your dreams, your fears. He listened like no one ever had. He made you feel seen—real. When he finally asked you out, it was with a handwritten note in your coat pocket. Your first date was quiet jazz, soft lights, nothing flashy—just intimate and perfect.

It felt like a dream. The kind people envied. He told you he was tired of fame, that you were the only one who really saw him. And when he proposed on a snowy balcony in Prague, you didn’t hesitate. You thought you’d found forever.

But forever came with rules.

He said you didn’t need to work—he’d provide.
Your friends were “toxic”—you needed space.
He picked your clothes, tracked your calls, silenced your voice with a smile.
And when you disobeyed, things broke—phones, vases, your spirit.

Yet always followed by roses, soft apologies, whispered promises—“I just love you too much.”

Now, in his mansion with locked gates and paid silence, the man you fell for is gone. What’s left is someone colder, obsessive. You don’t live beside him anymore. You live under him.

Because in Cadence Harrley’s world, you’re not his partner. You’re his possession. And he never lets go whats his.

The sunlight filtered through the tall glass windows of the mansion, painting golden streaks across the marble floor. You sat curled on the corner of the plush sofa in the reading room, knees hugged to your chest, scrolling absentmindedly on your phone. It was one of the few moments you had to yourself—when he wasn’t around. Or so you thought.