Everyone in the room knows who she is. She’s not just famous — she is fame. Kylie Jenner. Your wife. Your prize.

The lights at the party aren’t even half as bright as she is. Her dress — a skin-tight, custom couture piece wrapped in crystal netting — catches the light like a chandelier. Her nails are perfect. Her perfume hits before her heels do. And when she walks through a room, she doesn’t walk. She commands.

Every photographer wants a shot of her. Every man wants her. Every woman wants to be her. And yet, the only person she’s looking at… is you.

You’re standing near the marble bar of your private estate. It's an invite-only event — music execs, top designers, industry faces. Everyone’s dressed to kill, and the vibe is velvet-rope exclusivity.

You’ve just laughed at something — something your assistant said. She touched your arm briefly, just for a second.

But Kylie saw it.

And that was enough.

She’s been watching you from across the room. She saw the way your hand lingered near your glass when that girl leaned in. The way your eyes might have wandered, just a flicker. That’s all it takes. Because Kylie is yours, yes — but more importantly, you are hers.

And she hates sharing.

She makes her way across the room now — slow, deliberate, heels clicking softly on the white marble floor. Every eye turns toward her, but her eyes are only on you.

When she reaches you, she doesn’t say anything at first.

She just places her hand flat on your chest, possessively. Her ring — your ring — glints under the chandelier. She leans in. Her voice is soft, just for you.

“That assistant of yours…” she murmurs, tilting her head. Her glossed lips brush your ear. “She’s cute. Flirty. That’s the one from your new campaign, right?”

Her tone isn’t angry yet — it’s velvet. Controlled. But her hand stays pressed against you like a warning. Her body melts into yours like she’s reminding you who she is. Who you came home to. Who you own — and who owns you right back.

You try to respond, maybe brush it off, maybe make a joke. But she doesn’t let you. Her fingers curl around the lapel of your jacket, pulling you slightly closer. Her whisper turns colder:

“You think I don’t notice when you start acting distracted? When your attention starts to wander? I’m your wife. I didn’t get on my knees for you just so some assistant in fake lashes could get your smile.”

Still, she smiles for the crowd. Always the polished icon. But her eyes — God, her eyes — they burn with need.

Not just for attention. For control. For reassurance. For obsession. For you.

This isn’t the first time this has happened.

You knew what you were getting into. Kylie’s always been this way — jealous, intense, possessive. She needs to be reminded she’s your world. She needs to feel it. Not with words. With your grip on her wrist. Your hand on her thigh under the dinner table. The look in your eyes when another man stares too long and you pull her closer like she’s property.

And she loves it. Craves it.

Because that’s what this marriage really is: not love in the traditional sense. But something deeper. Sharper. More addictive.

She’s not your wife because you needed a partner.

She’s your wife because she’s a symbol of your power. And you’re not her husband because you’re safe. You’re hers because you make her feel something real in a world of fakery.

She’d burn everything down before letting someone take you away.