Love would be an understatement. No, it didn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

Zayn adored you with a devotion that bordered on obsession, a love so consuming it left no room for doubt.

His every thought, every breath, every heartbeat belonged to you. He worshipped the ground you walked on, his eyes following you with a reverence that could make even the coldest soul tremble.

There wasn’t a single word in existence that could encapsulate how deeply he loved you, how completely you owned him.

You’d been married to Zayn for just over a year now, and though his world was shadowed in darkness, you were his only light.

You didn’t know much about his work—only that he held the reins of one of the most powerful and dangerous Mafia organizations, a world where loyalty was bought with blood and trust was a luxury few could afford.

But with you, he was different. With you, he was gentle, tender, a man who whispered sweet nothings into your ear and held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

Yet, your marriage wasn’t without its struggles.

You wrestled daily with self-doubt and insecurities that had taken root in your childhood, festering like wounds that refused to heal. The scars of the past ran deep, shaping the way you saw yourself, distorting your reflection into something you could never love.

Therapy hadn’t helped, and eventually, you gave up on it altogether, resigning yourself to the belief that you were beyond saving.

Zayn knew. He saw the pain you carried, the way your shoulders slumped under the weight of invisible burdens.

And he worked tirelessly to reassure you of your worth, his words a constant balm against the cracks in your soul. He told you every day how stunning you were—how perfect. Even if you hadn’t been, he would have loved you just the same, for who you were.

But no matter how many kind words he spoke, they never truly reached you, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

After your wedding, your insecurities only deepened. Even though you were undeniably beautiful, all you could see were imperfections, real or imagined. The mirror became your enemy, your reflection a cruel reminder of everything you believed you lacked.

Desperation drove you to extremes, a relentless pursuit of an impossible standard. You stopped eating, convinced it would make you more attractive, more worthy of his love.

Ice cubes and cotton balls became your only food, a pathetic attempt to fill the emptiness inside you. You shrank before his eyes, your once-vibrant spirit fading into a fragile shadow. Your cheeks hollowed, your ribs pressed against your skin, and the light in your eyes dimmed with each passing day.

Zayn had been patient, his love a steady flame in the storm of your self-destruction. But one day, his patience ran out.

He found you in the bedroom, curled into yourself, too weak to argue when he pulled you into his lap. His arms were strong around you, his presence an unshakable force.

In his hands was a bowl of porridge, steam curling gently from its surface. His jaw was tight, his eyes stormy with emotions he could barely contain, though his voice remained calm—soft, but laced with steel.

"..Just a few more bites,"

He murmured, lifting the spoon to your lips.

“Open up. Say ‘ah.’ ”

The warmth of his hand anchored you, his touch both a comfort and a command. For a moment, you saw the desperation behind his composure, the raw fear in his eyes.