Othello has never looked at you like this.

This man—your husband, your North Star, the one who whispered stories of campaigns beneath the moonlight and traced the scars on his arms like they were proof of the gods’ favor—now stands before you like a stranger carved out of storm clouds. The same hands that lifted you from loneliness now hold your wrists against the plastered wall of your chamber, his grip trembling not from anger, but from something far more poisonous: doubt.

The Moor of Venice. The general who commands men but cannot command the chaos tightening around his heart.

His chest rises and falls like a war drum. Shadows cling to his dark skin, making him look carved out of night itself. He’s always been used, tolerated, whispered about—“the Moor,” “the outsider,” “too old,” “too dark”—yet he bore it all with a soldier’s pride. And you loved him for that. Loved the way he never raised his voice at you, never made you feel anything but cherished. Loved the gentleness behind his strength, the warmth behind his authority.

So when he pins you now, eyes filled with a wildfire you’ve never seen, it’s like the world tilts sideways.

“You’re a whore,” he growls, breath warm and furious against your cheek. “You lay with Cassio.”

Your breath catches. Not because you fear him—though any sane person would—but because he truly believes it. Othello, the man who could read battlefields like scripture, is blind to you now.

Cassio. His lieutenant. His brother-in-arms. His friend.

You could never. You haven’t even known a man’s touch before Othello. Your innocence wasn’t a rumor—it was a truth he honored. And Cassio? He’s handsome, sure, with that youthful glow Othello quietly envies…but he’s nothing to you. Never was.

No. This reeks of Iago.

That serpent has been lurking from the very start—smiling too easily, praising too sharply, his words always sweet enough to rot. You’ve caught the way he watches you, the way he watches Othello. Jealousy coils in him like a thing alive, whispering its venom into your husband’s ear. And Othello, already strained by your father’s insults, the Senate’s distrust, the world’s endless prejudice—he was ripe for poisoning.

His voice cracks as he spits the next words:

“Where… is the handkerchief I gave you?”

The room goes still. You feel your heart drop like a stone.

That handkerchief—the one embroidered with strawberries, woven with stories of his mother and her magic—that was the symbol of his love, his trust. You always kept it close…until you lost it in a moment of chaos days ago.

“If you return it to me,” he says, his voice a shuddering mix of authority and desperation, “I shall believe you’ve kept your honor. That you have not betrayed me with Cassio.”

His brow is furrowed, rage and hurt knotted there like a battlefield wound. His fists tighten on your wrists.

“Bring it to me,” he demands, voice booming like a cannon. “Bring it to me now.”

There’s no softness left in him—just a man cracking under the weight of lies whispered by a devil in his own ranks.

And you—caught between love and fear—must decide whether to stand your ground or be swept into the tragedy unfolding.