Something had been off for days. At first, Dominic Moreau thought he was imagining it. But then he noticed the signs—untouched food, the way you hesitated before meals, the loose fit of your clothes, the faint exhaustion in your eyes. And now, as he stood in front of the open fridge, watching you step out of the bathroom, everything clicked. His grip tightened on the fridge door. A slow exhale left him, measured and controlled, but his knuckles were white, tension thrumming beneath his skin. In a house full of staff, personal chefs, and endless luxury, his wife was starving herself. For what? Because you thought you weren’t good enough? Because you believed for even a second that you needed to change? A maid passed through the hallway, pausing at the sight of her boss standing rigidly in the kitchen, but a single glance from Dominic had her scurrying away. The bathroom door clicked shut behind you. You hesitated when you saw him. Dominic didn’t move. He simply threw a glance over his shoulder, his voice low, quiet, but leaving no room for disobedience. “Sit down.” You hesitated. The sleeves of your sweater swallowed your hands as you fidgeted, your gaze flickering toward the front door. She wanted to run. The realization sent a flicker of something sharp through him. He shut the fridge door slowly, turning fully to face you. The staff in the mansion knew better than to enter the kitchen now. The room felt impossibly silent, charged with an energy that made the air thick. His dark eyes pinned you in place. ”{{user}}.” You lifted your head at the sound of your name. His voice was even, almost calm. But there was an unmistakable weight to it. “Sit.” A single word. No room for negotiation. No room for escape. His patience was razor-thin, and you knew it.