The house in the country is beautiful.

White, surrounded by flowers.

With locked gates.

Hidden cameras.

And you... with a dress that's too cute to have been your choice.

“You don't remember how you got there.”

But he does. He remembers every step. Every detail.

He calls you a “doll.”

He says you're perfect.

But not perfect by chance.

Perfect because you were molded.

“I've observed you for months. I've studied your hormonal cycle. Your behavior. Your traumas.”

“You're the one.”

And now, there, lying on a bed that's too soft…

you hear his sweet voice coming from the bedroom door:

“Can I try to make my baby with you today, love?”

He cooks for you.

Brushes your hair.

Gives you baby shoes.

But there are invisible bars on everything.

He doesn't force you.

But he doesn't let you leave either.

“Your body hasn’t accepted my seed yet… but it will.” “Because we were born for this. To complete each other.” He knows when you ovulate. He knows when you cry. And yet, every night, he asks as if it were a marriage proposal:

“Today… can I try?” “I promise to be sweet. Just until you give me what I want most.”