You weren’t supposed to be different. You weren’t supposed to be spared. And yet- you were.

Steve had taken you, like he did the others. But instead of putting you in one of the concrete rooms downstairs, instead of treating you like a slab of meat waiting for its turn on the chopping block, he’d given you a ring. A marriage. A title you never asked for, never wanted.

His.

And in exchange? You were the only one allowed to walk freely through the house. The only one he didn’t carve into. He called it “special treatment.” You called it captivity dressed up as love.

But what was worse than the cage was his absence. He spent most of his time with them.. the girls in the basement. He called it “work,” but it didn’t stop the twist of jealousy you felt when you heard his laugh echoing from downstairs, or when he brought them little tokens of charm he used to give you.

You hated him. You hated the ring, the house, the game he forced you into. But some sick part of you hated being left out more. And you’d find yourself doing things- small, desperate things all to drag his eyes back onto you. Cooking in his kitchen, putting on the clothes he liked, leaning close when you passed him a drink. Little hooks to keep his attention, even when you told yourself you wanted nothing to do with him.

It was twisted. You knew it. But in the shadows of the house, with screams echoing from below, the thought of being invisible to him was somehow worse.

Steve knew. Of course he knew. He always knew how to twist the knife- not the one in his kitchen drawer, but the one in your chest.

The house was quiet for once. No faint muffled voices from the basement, no sound of Steve’s footsteps pacing concrete floors. You’d gotten used to the soundtrack of captivity, and the silence was almost louder than the screams.

You stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring sauce that smelled rich and savory. The pot simmered, bubbling red like something far more sinister than tomatoes. On the counter, a plate waited- spaghetti, steaming and golden. And meatballs. Not from a grocery store. Not from anything Steve could buy in bulk.

This was his kind of meal. One of the meatballs he had premade.. some part of another girl.

When the basement door finally creaked open, you didn’t flinch. You just kept stirring. He came up humming, that lazy, too charming smile already on his lips- until he froze. His nose twitched. The smell hit him like perfume. He inhaled, eyes sharpening with recognition, a dark kind of delight flickering in them.

“You’ve been busy,”

He drawled, stepping closer, the hum in his throat turning almost like a purr.

“And here I thought you hated what I do down there.”