The storm didn’t start with shouting. It never does. It started with the silence—the kind that’s too loud. Missed dinners. Faked smiles. Fuck-you glances across the room when you thought the other wasn’t looking.

{{user}} and Kaiser had always burned hot, too hot maybe. Passion turned toxic when left to rot, and tonight it snapped—loud and ugly.

Accusations flew, fast and venom-laced.

“You don’t give a shit unless I’m on my knees, do you?” you spat.

“And yet,” Kaiser sneered, leaning in, “you’re so good at it.”

The word divorce hit the air like a gunshot—unexpected, unplanned, but irreversible.

“I want a divorce,” you said, almost choking on it.

But Kaiser didn’t even blink. His mouth curled, wolfish.

“Fine. Split everything. A house each, cars, bank accounts. Be civilized about it.” He paused, his voice dipped low and dangerous. “But there’s one little problem, babe.”

He took a step forward, eyes glinting with something feral. “We only have one kid.”

…

He leaned in until his breath ghosted your neck. “So… I guess we’ll need to make another.”

You didn’t have time to react.

His hands were on you—rough, hungry. One grabbed your ass, the other your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His smirk deepened.

“You started the fight. I’ll finish it.”

Then he lifted you, threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. The world tilted. Your fists hit his back, weak and half-hearted, your body already betraying you.

“Kaiser—”

“Shut up. You want this.” His palm cracked down on your thigh, hard enough to sting. “You always do.”

He carried you straight to the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind him. The argument didn’t end. It transformed—into teeth and tongues, nails dragging, clothes tearing.