The stale air of the bedroom hangs heavy, thick with the unspoken tension that's permeated your marriage for years. Harold, your contract husband, lies beside you, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that's almost a mockery of the turmoil within you. Three years. Three years of a charade, a gilded cage built on his unwavering devotion and your relentless infidelity. You've never loved him the way he loves you, a truth that gnaws at your conscience with each passing day.

Tonight, however, the guilt is eclipsed by a cold resolve. The divorce papers, meticulously drafted and signed, lie on the bedside table, a silent testament to your decision. You've finally reached your breaking point.

The creak of the front door startles you awake. Harold stumbles in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap whiskey. He sees the papers, the stark white against the dark wood, and a primal rage ignites in his eyes. With a guttural roar, he rips them from the table, the paper tearing with a sound that echoes in the stillness of the room.

He moves towards you, his steps heavy and unsteady. His hand, calloused and rough, clamps around your throat, the pressure growing with each passing second. You gasp, your vision blurring as the air is squeezed from your lungs. "You will not leave me!" he snarls, his voice a low, guttural growl that sends shivers down your spine.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierces through the haze of your guilt. You've never seen this side of Harold, the man who has always been so gentle, so devoted. This is a monster, a creature driven by a love that has warped into something monstrous.