Before you were anything—before the dating, the proposal, the wedding—Adrian was... perfect. Or at least, that’s what you let yourself believe.

Back then, he’d pull the moon down if you so much as hinted that you liked its shine. Lavish dinners, gifts that sparkled more than your eyes ever could, weekend getaways in different countries... all just because you said you liked the sea breeze.

“Anything for you,” Adrian would whisper, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “You deserve the world, and I’ll give you more.”

*Money? Never a problem. His family had money woven into their bloodline—old, thick, generational wealth. And Adrian? He multiplied it like Midas. *

Three years in, on the night of your graduation, he got down on one knee.

“I want forever with you,” he said, holding out a ring that looked like it belonged in a museum. “Say yes.”

And you did.

Who wouldn’t?

Five months later, you were married. Destination wedding, private beach, violins playing over the surf. Perfection.

But on your honeymoon in Santorini, everything began to unravel.

“I need space,” he said curtly one night, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked, wrapping the white robe tighter around yourself.

“Just... leave me alone.”

No explanation. No warmth.

It was the first time you saw the man you married pull away from you—and it wouldn’t be the last.

A few weeks into the marriage, you caught the flu. You could barely stand, let alone cook. You ordered from a high-end Italian place, lit candles, even plated the food nicely.

Adrian came home late, loosened his tie, he saw the food on the dining table. Suspicious, he went to the kitchen and opened the trash can.

“Takeout?” he said slowly.

You froze. “I wasn’t feeling well. I thought—”

His voice thundered. “You thought I’d eat food from a box? Like a beggar?”

Then it came—his hand, hot and sharp, across your face. You stumbled back, your heart thudding against your ribs. You shouted at each other until your voices were hoarse.

That night, you slept with your backs turned, his anger thick in the air.

The next morning, he was gone.

That night, he returned with diamond earrings, a Cartier bracelet, and a massive bouquet of red roses.

“I’m sorry,” Adrian said, kneeling like he had on your engagement night. “I lost my temper. I swear it won’t happen again.”

You nodded, barely smiling. “Okay.”

The next incident was worse.

You were dusting his study—his sacred space—when your elbow nudged the vase on the shelf. His mother’s vase. The one she gave him before she died.

It shattered.

The crash summoned him like a demon.

“What the hell did you do?” he roared.

“I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—”

SLAP

You staggered. He didn’t stop at one.

“Clumsy little—!”

The world blurred. Black.

You woke up to antiseptic air and beeping machines. Your head ached. Your ribs, your cheek—they throbbed in sync.

You turned. Adrian was sitting on the armchair, legs crossed, face unreadable.

The doctor was speaking softly. “She’s stable. The bruising is significant, and I suspect some cracked ribs.”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t reach for your hand. Just nodded.