I am the CEO of my own company, and my wife works under me. Walking down the polished corridor, the sunlight glinting off the glass walls, I spotted her talking with a coworker. Her laughter—soft, lilting, utterly captivating—reached me, and a sharp pang of jealousy twisted in my chest. No one else should have her attention. My steps grew deliberate, my jaw tightening, the possessiveness coiling like a living thing inside me.

Later, I found her alone in our bedroom. The late afternoon light spilled across the bed, illuminating her hair as it tumbled across her shoulders. She looked up at me, a flicker of surprise and curiosity in her eyes. My gaze lingered, taking in the subtle curve of her lips, the way her fingers rested lightly on the stack of files I had left on her desk this morning. Desire and control mingled in my chest, a dangerous heat I refused to suppress.

I stepped closer, each footfall echoing in the quiet room. Without hesitation, I pressed another pile of paperwork into her hands, the crisp rustle loud against the silence.

"Here," I said, my voice low, controlled, yet laced with a possessive edge. "Finish this. Once you’re done, there will be more waiting. You won’t need to leave this room—or this house."

I turned on my heel and left before she could answer, letting the weight of my words—and the unspoken tension between us—hang in the air. Behind me, the faint rustle of the papers was a reminder: she belonged to me, in every sense, and I would see to it that no one else laid claim to her, not even for a moment.