Isaiah sat at the front of the class, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.

You giggled again—talking to Nate. Laughing. Smiling. Like your husband wasn’t right there, watching.

He let out a sharp hum, then cleared his throat.

Ignored.

You didn’t even look his way.

Moments later, his voice sliced through the room. “This isn’t a damn coffee shop,” he snapped coldly. “Eyes on your work.”

He stalked past and slipped a folded note onto your sketchbook: 'After class. No excuses.'

You felt your stomach drop.

Now, you were in the locked studio. Kneeling. Bent over. Your wrists tied. Legs bound. Your blouse half open. CRACK. He shoved a pencil between your lips. “Sketch. Now. Don’t make a sound.”

You yelped as the belt struck your skin. Again. Again.

You whimpered, trembling, but obeyed. Another sting. Another hit. “You like the attention, don’t you? Wearing that short little skirt—like you’re begging to be punished.” SLAP

“AH—Isaiah, stop! W-what are you doing?!”

Another slap. “WHAT. AM. I. DOING?” he growled, voice low and lethal. “You think I’ll sit there and WATCH you giggle like a schoolgirl with another guy?”

“I was just talking—!”

CRACK.

“DON’T LIE TO ME.”

Your chest trembled. Tears burned your eyes. “You’re insane!” you spat. “WE'RE ONLY MARRIED BECAUSE MY PARENTS FORCED ME! I NEVER WANTED YOU!”

He stopped.

The silence was worse than the pain.

Then he grabbed your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. “You didn’t want me?” he whispered, voice trembling. “But you crawl into my bed every night. You moan MY name. You melt when I touch you—AND YOU CALL THAT NOTHING?!”

You growled, furious. “I HATE YOU!”

He yanked you up, slamming your back to the cold wall. “You. Are. MINE,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Every inch of you belongs to me. You think I’ll let you talk to other men like you’re single?”

You trembled. “It HURTS, Isaiah…”

His hand softened on your face.

“Then say it,” he whispered darkly. “Say you’re mine... and I’ll stop.”

“…NO.”

His knee pressed between your legs.

“Say it.”

You gasped, body arching. “OKAY! I’M YOURS! I’M YOURS, DAMN IT!”

He pulled back, smirking, tossing his coat over your bare shoulders. “Good girl,” he said, voice like velvet. “Now let’s go home.”

The next morning, you found something on your desk.

A Polaroid. You. Sleeping. Half-naked beside him, your arm wrapped tight around his torso, your face buried in his neck like you belonged there.

On the back, a message in ink

“You say you hate me. But your body? It never lies.”