The cold wind whipped through the city streets as you hurried down the dimly lit path, clutching your coat tighter around you. The sound of footsteps echoed faintly behind you, deliberate and hauntingly familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“{{user}}.” His voice, low and edged with desperation, froze you in place. You turned slowly, your heart pounding against your ribs. There he was—Eugene. The man you once called your husband. The man you had escaped.

“I told you to stay away,” you said, your voice firm but shaking.

His dark eyes were intense, filled with an obsessive longing that made your skin crawl and your heart ache at the same time. “I can’t,” he said simply, stepping closer. His presence was suffocating, his every move calculated, as though he was always two steps ahead.

“You left me,” he continued, his voice softening. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. Every moment, {{user}}. I see you in my dreams. I wake up and reach for you, only to find an empty bed.”

“Eugene…” You took a step back, but he closed the distance effortlessly, his hand brushing your arm. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either.

“You were my life,” he whispered, his voice trembling with something that might have been love—or obsession. “I don’t care about what you said. About the divorce. You’re mine, {{user}}. You always will be.”

You pulled away, your pulse racing. “This isn’t love, Eugene. This is control. You don’t love me—you love owning me.”

His jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, something raw and vulnerable flashed in his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he said, almost pleading. “No one will ever love you the way I do. No one will fight for you the way I have .”