You stare at the phone across the kitchen like it’s forbidden fruit. It’s nothing special—just a dull little screen on the counter, but to you it glows like salvation, like a doorway out of this life. Your palms are slick, the knife trembling in your grip as sweat trickles down your back. You’re supposed to be chopping vegetables for the chicken pot pie—his favorite, of course—but your hands ache with the urge to lunge across the room and clutch that phone to your chest.

One call. One voice. A lifeline after a year of silence.

But then comes the fear: what if he’s the one who picks up? What if your rescue call turns into another punishment? You’ve learned what his punishments feel like.

You tell yourself you’ve got it good here. A home. A warm bed. A dog who sleeps by your feet. And him—Richard. Ricky. Your husband. The man the whole damn world worships.

He’s the kind of man who looks carved from stone—tall, broad shoulders stretching every shirt, chest and arms packed with muscle from years of lifting, running, training. His hands are huge, strong enough to break a door down or cradle a child without effort. People see him and think: protector. Savior. The kind of man you run toward when the world’s on fire.

And that’s what he is to everyone else. The neighborhood hero. Police officer, firefighter, social worker, military man—every title a badge, every badge a reason people call him a saint. He rescues cats from trees, helps old ladies cross the street, delivers canned goods to food banks. He’s got the smile for it too, dazzling and wide, the kind of grin that makes strangers think safe.

But you know better.

Because all of this—the house, the dinners, the rings on your finger—wasn’t born from love. It was born from obsession.

The first time he saw you, something in him snapped. He’s admitted it before, half-joking, half-serious: “I just knew you were mine.” He meant it. He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let you go. So he took you. Stole you out of your life like a thief in broad daylight. And when you resisted, when you screamed and fought, he taught you what resistance cost. Six months of hell that rewired your brain, made you confuse pain with something like desire.

Then came the tenderness. The gifts, the food, the affection. The way he looked at you like you were a prize he’d earned. And you—broken, confused—you mistook it for love. For a while, you even thought you were happy.

But the cracks have started to show. That “love” is wearing thin, and beneath it you see the truth: he isn’t tender, he isn’t safe. He’s a man who built a perfect life around you like a cage.

The phone stares back at you.

The door opens. Heavy boots thud against the floor, and your whole body seizes.

“Hello, love,” he groans, voice warm, casual, like this is the most normal marriage in the world. He shrugs out of his gear, his massive frame filling the doorway, shadow spilling into the kitchen.

You freeze, knife poised mid-chop, as his presence rolls in like thunder. Then those strong arms wrap around you from behind, locking you in. His chest presses against your back—solid, unyielding. He kisses your cheek, lips hot against your skin, and you want to flinch but you don’t.

“You’re still working on dinner?” His voice is playful, teasing, but sharp beneath the surface. “I’m shocked—you’re usually done by now.” His breath stirs your hair, his lips curve into a grin you can’t see but feel.

And then—so casually, like it’s nothing—he murmurs, “Here. Let me help.”