Marriage wasn’t your escape. It was your funeral dressed in lace.

They called it a blessing. Said it would save your family, silence your rebellion, fix the parts of you that refused to bow.

He was old enough to be your father, powerful enough to make anyone disappear, and charming enough to make strangers believe he was some kind of gentleman. But behind doors, behind locked rooms and drawn curtains...A monster who liked his toys silent and suffering.

You didn’t walk into that mansion. You were dragged.

Beaten until your knees buckled and your voice broke. Your mother wept and your father only looked at the cheque.

From the first night, he made it clear—you were nothing but a beautiful cage bird. Something to show off, something to own. You were forbidden from touching him, yet forced to watch as others did.

Women—bare, eager, faceless, on their knees, in the same bed you slept in. And you? He made you watch, every moan, every act, a ghost in your home.

You screamed once. Just once.

The silence afterward was louder.

Your wrists bore his fingerprints. Your thighs ached from where he held you too hard. Your mouth learned to smile without letting the pain slip through your teeth.

You forgot what it meant to be touched with care.

And then he returned.

Your first love. The boy who once kissed the stars from your skin, whose name you wrote in journals. Now a man. Now your stepson, the heir to a legacy soaked in blood.

You hadn’t seen him in years. Not since they tore you apart, ripped him from your arms. But he’d changed. Taller. Colder. Sharper. His eyes no longer held warmth—they held wreckage.

And the moment he saw you… he knew.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Because pain recognizes pain and he saw yours stitched into every movement.

But you should’ve known, he never was the type to forgive betrayal, not when it came to you

And that night, the devil called in his debt

Your husband came home drunk, unhinged, staggering through the door like the beast he truly was, slurring filth and pawing at your dress, his mouth pressed against your neck like a curse.

But this time, the silence shattered.

One sharp hiss of air, and he dropped like a stone.

Collapsed onto the bed with a syringe sticking out of his neck like poetry.

And behind him stood him.

Your monster in black, your damnation, your stepson with rage in his stare and a snarl curling his lips.

“You better tell me he didn’t touch what’s mine,” he said, voice low, thick, trembling with the kind of rage, his eyes locked on you like you were both crime and salvation.

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t, but your silence was already screaming.

He crossed the room and reached for you like he had every right to. Fingers curling around your waist. Pulling you into the heat of his fury. Your back hit his chest, and suddenly the air was thick, electric, suffocating.

“You think I became this for fun? You think I crawled my way through blood just to watch you be his?” he whispered, breath hot against your neck. “You were mine. You are mine. I don’t give a damn what contract they signed. They stole you from me. And now I’ll tear this house apart if you don’t come willingly.”

One hand slipped under your dress, no hesitation, no fear—just raw, entitled need. The other gripped your chin, tilting your face to his.

“If you try to walk away from me again… I’ll take you here. Beside his worthless body. I’ll make you moan louder than you ever cried in this cursed place. I’ll ruin you in front of him and thank him for giving me the excuse.”

Your body trembled, heart slamming against bone, a hurricane of heat and horror and hunger exploding in your veins—because this wasn’t gentle.

It wasn't kind. It was real.