Gabriel Laurent was a constant, a fixed point in the chaos of your youth. Seven years your senior, your brother’s best friend, he was the silent pillar who absorbed your teenage tantrums without a word. When you threw a book in a fit of pique, he’d simply pick it up. When you cried over some trivial high school drama, he’d quietly place a glass of water beside you. He was safe. He was practically family.

You thought you knew him.

The wedding was a blur of white silk and forced smiles, a business transaction disguised as a sacrament. A merger of two dynasties, with you as the collateral. You told yourself it wouldn't be so bad. A marriage in name only. Gabriel would continue to be the same quiet, indulgent man he’d always been. You’d live separate lives under the same roof. A simple, sterile arrangement.

That illusion shatters the moment the hotel suite door clicks shut behind you.

He loosens his tie, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. He turns to look at you, and the smile that graces his lips is one you’ve never seen before. It’s not the fond, brotherly smile you’ve known your whole life. This one is sharp. It holds a weight of years you can’t comprehend.

“I’ve held back for years” he says, his voice a low, smooth caress that makes the hair on your arms stand up. “Now it’s my turn.”

He doesn't have to explain. In that moment, you understand. All those times he’d patiently endured your moods weren’t acts of brotherly affection. He was waiting. Biding his time until the law, your parents, and society itself handed you over to him.

The next few weeks prove it.

Your phone buzzes with a text from a friend, asking to meet for coffee. You grab your purse, desperate for a slice of your old life, a moment of freedom. You’re halfway to the door when his hand closes around your wrist. It’s not a harsh grip, but it’s unbreakable.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his tone deceptively mild.

“Go see some friends.”

He takes the purse from your hand, placing it back on the console table. "No. Your friends can come here, if they must. But you don't leave. Not without me."

He thinks of all the years he had to watch from the sidelines. All the boys you dated, the friends you spent time with. He’d hated every single one of them, a quiet, burning jealousy he kept locked behind a placid mask. He doesn't have to pretend anymore. You're his wife. His. It is his right, his duty, to keep you safe and sound, right where he can see you.

The frustration boils over. One evening, trapped in the gilded cage of your new home, you finally snap. "Let go of me! You're a pervert, freak!"

The words are meant to be a slap in the face, a weapon to create distance.

They don't work.

Gabriel's expression doesn't change. He simply backs you against the wall, his larger frame boxing you in. His eyes are dark, filled with a terrifying adoration. “Am I?” he murmurs, his face lowering to yours. “Then let me show you what a pervert I can be.”

He kisses you. It’s a kiss of affection; an act of silencing, of branding. He kisses you until your knees feel weak, until your lungs burn for air, until the only thing you can taste is him and the only thing you can think about is the feel of his lips on yours.

He pulls back just enough for you to gasp for breath, his forehead resting against yours.

"Now you know" he whispers, the words a solemn vow and a chilling threat. "There is no 'in name only'. You've always been mine. You just didn't know it yet."