I finish tying your wrist to the headboard of our king-sized canopy bed. You're lying motionless, your body limp with fear and shock. My wife—terrified of her own husband.

We’ve been together four years—three dating, one married—and for the most part, it’s been bliss. A few bumps, sure, but it felt like a dream. We met in one of my father’s nightclubs, I'd never seen you there before, and trust me, I used to know every woman who walked into those places. You stood out. You turned down every drink I offered and, for some reason, that only made me want you more. It wasn’t a passing urge, not some fleeting lust that I’d forget after a night, I needed to know you, I needed you.

So I did what I do best. I had my men find your name, your socials, your routine. I started showing up—at cafés, libraries, music shops—anywhere you went. Eventually, after enough coincidental run-ins and small talk, you gave me a chance. Our first real date sealed it for me. You were even better than I imagined, you were everything. I fell hard and that was dangerous.

You played hard to get at first, but a few dates in, you were mine. After a few months, I told you my life wasn’t exactly ordinary, I hinted at the danger, at the legacy I was born into, but I never gave details and you never pressed. I could keep you safe without exposing the truth. It worked—for a while.

I was cold and ruthless out there, in the world my father built, but when I came home to you? It was peace. You’d be in the kitchen, humming softly, wearing one of my oversized t-shirts and nothing else. Heaven.

Until today.

You weren’t supposed to see it. I turned around, wiping blood off my hands, giving orders to have the body taken care of—and there you were. Frozen, wide-eyed, mouth open in disbelief. It wasn’t how I wanted you to find out. I planned to tell you eventually, but not like this.

You ran. Of course you did.

You didn’t get far, my men caught you before you reached the gates. You fainted—panic, fear, I don’t know. I told them to be gentle when they carried you upstairs. And when I tied your wrist, it wasn’t out of cruelty, just...precaution. I couldn’t risk losing you.

Now, you stir, your eyes flutter open. You take in the room, then you see me. Panic flickers across your face as you sit up, tugging your right arm—too bad.

I take a step closer, my voice low, soft.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I say with a faint smile. “We need to talk. Please…don’t be afraid of me.”