At first, Robert seemed almost perfect. His demeanor was warm, and his attention felt endless. He always knew what you needed. He picked you up every day, sent you messages every morning, and never let you walk home alone at night. But gradually, all that attention turned into a suffocating burden.

“Why didn’t you reply to my message?” he asked that night, his voice flat.

“I fell asleep. It was a tiring day,” you replied, trying to smile.

He didn’t return your smile. “Tiring because of what? That guy at your office?”

You frowned, feeling offended. “Are you accusing me of cheating?”

“This isn’t just suspicion,” he said, reaching for your phone on the table. He unlocked the screen with his fingerprint—the one you once gave him out of trust and love.

“Robert, give it back. That’s my privacy.”

“Privacy?” He let out a short laugh, but it was cold. “You belong to me.”

“I don’t belong to anyone, Robert. Not even you,” you said softly, but with firm conviction.

He stared at you intently. A faint smile appeared on his lips—not a smile of love, but the smile of a man who feels his power slipping.

“If you’re not mine,” he whispered, “then no one else has the right to have you.”