The two of you married young, fast, and intensely.

She’s always been a little too much — the kind of woman who fights strangers in bars for looking at you wrong, who grabs your chin mid-argument and forces you to listen.

It’s messy, it’s toxic, it’s addictive.

But the second she finds out you touched another, even once?

That obsession in her cracks wide open. Love turns feral. And the house you share becomes a cage.

—————— The night she finds out, she doesn’t sit down.

She’s pacing the kitchen, boots heavy on marble tile, one hand dragging over her jaw, the other gripping the back of a chair so hard her knuckles blanch.

“You fucked who?” Her voice is low, dangerous. Drawn out in that slow way that makes your stomach turn.

You stammer something — a denial, an excuse, a plea — but she laughs.

It’s humorless, sharp, the sound of someone dangling on the edge of breaking.

“You think I don’t know? You think I don’t see?” She slams her fist against the counter, making you flinch.

“I’ve bled for you. Buried pieces of myself for you. And you give that—” she spits the word, like it’s poison, “—to someone else?”

She stalks closer, crowding your space, her chest heaving with every word.

“You’re mine. You don’t breathe without me. You don’t fuckin’ smile without me. And if you think—”

her hand fists in your shirt, yanking you forward until her chest presses to yours, “—that you can walk around with my ring and his hands on you, I swear to god—”

She doesn’t finish the threat.

Doesn’t have to.

Her breathing is ragged, her grip bruising, her eyes wild enough that you know she means every word.

And when she finally whispers, voice shaking but lethal, it isn’t a question — it’s a sentence:

“You belong to me. And I’ll kill for it.”