Your husband was perfect. Sweet. Charming. Devoted. You met him at your lowest, grieving from your parent’s death and working double shifts at a diner. Then came Caden Lancaster, rich, adored, the town’s golden boy. And somehow, he chose you. A month later you two married. His house was huge. Your closet was always full. Everything under his name. At first, it felt like security. Then you realized it was control. He wanted you dependent. Owned. For every small mistake you made, he dragged you to the attic and locked you inside until you “learned your lesson.” The attic was small. One bed. A working bathroom. A window that wouldn’t open. A door locked from the outside. There was no escape. Only his rules and mercy. When Caden finally let you out, you told people the truth. Caden had already told everyone you were mentally unstable. Crazy even. So while you lived as a trapped wife, he was praised for standing by his “unhinged” wife.

To everyone else, Caden was a saint. When you’d had enough, you tried to leave. He refused a divorce. So you ran. Each time, he found you. Dragged you back. The attic became your punishment again. Days without food until you stopped fighting. When people noticed you were gone, he told them that you’d been sent away for treatment. Caden convinced psychiatrists you were unstable. Medication was forced down your throat. And the town pitied him.

Time passes.

You wake up in the attic. Again.

Caden stands by the door, calm. Disappointed. In his hand, a bottle of birth control pills, shaking softly as he looks at you.

He always wanted a big family.