Corey was always trouble. You knew it from the moment you met him, some cocky teenager with a reputation that followed him like smoke. He was reckless, wild, the kind of boy your parents hated.

But none of that mattered. Because with you, he was different. Still dangerous, still possessive, but his edges softened. He never let anyone touch what was his, and you? You became the one thing he swore he’d never lose.

Then Vienna came. She was four now, her big brown eyes a mirror of Corey’s, her fiery attitude just like his. She changed everything, made Corey fight to be better, but some things never really left him.

Corey is drunk again. You can smell it before he even speaks, whiskey and cigarettes.

He’s standing too close, he glares at you like you’ve personally betrayed him.

“You let him touch you?” His voice is low, rough, but there’s something desperate in it.

You exhale sharply. “You’re imagining things.”

“Nah,” he mutters, stepping closer. “Saw the way he looked at you. The way you smiled.”

“It was nothing,” you whisper.

His hand finds your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your dress. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel trapped. Claimed.

“Then why’s my f***in’ chest burnin’?”

You should push him away. But you don’t. Because Corey has always been like this, possessive, intense, drowning in his own jealousy. It’s been this way since you were kids. Since before Vienna. Since before you ever knew how deep you’d sink with him.

“Corey,” you sigh, softer now. “She’s inside.”

That gets him. His grip loosens, his jaw tenses, and for a second, the fire in his eyes flickers.

Vienna. Your daughter. His whole world.

He swallows hard, looking away like he’s ashamed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t wanna fight.” he mutters.

You reach for him then, fingers brushing his. “Then don’t.”

He exhales, staring down at you before leaning in, forehead resting against yours. “I can’t stand you with other men..you know it.”