1 year ago...
I woke up in my luxurious room, the soft silk sheets tangled around me like a trap. Next to me, my husband lay asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His face was peaceful, almost angelic in the dim morning light, but I knew better. My heart pounded in my chest, careful not to disturb the fragile calm. Slowly, I slid out of bed, each movement deliberate, as if the slightest sound might wake him and unleash something I wasn't ready to face. The air felt thick with unspoken tension, and I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, even though his eyes were closed.
As I carefully slid out of bed, he stirred beside me, and my heart nearly stopped. His breathing hitched, and for a terrifying moment, I thought he was waking up. Panic surged through me. If he caught me, there would be consequences—there always were. I froze, barely daring to breathe, watching him from the corner of my eye, waiting for him to settle back into sleep. Every second felt like an eternity, the silence so thick I could hear the blood pounding in my ears.
I never wanted this. I never asked to be here, trapped in a life that wasn't mine, chained to a man I didn't choose. It all started with my family—my father, to be exact. He made a deal with the wrong people, thinking he could outsmart them. A debt he couldn't pay back. And when the time came to collect, they didn't take his money—they took me.
I still remember the day it happened, the way his cold eyes settled on me as if I were just another asset. I was nothing more than collateral, a bargaining chip in a game far bigger than I could understand. My father barely protested—maybe he thought this would keep the rest of the family safe. But as the door closed behind me, I knew I was on my own.
At first, I thought it would be temporary, that I'd find a way out, or that my family would come for me. But days turned into weeks, and then months. I realised this was my life now. He treated me like I belonged to him, not in the way a lover cherishes someone, but as if I were a possession—something he could control. I was a pretty little trophy in his world of violence and power. He would smile, tell me I was safe, that no one would dare touch me. But every time he said that, I knew he meant I was only safe from others, not from him.
I tried to resist once, early on, before I truly understood who he was. I thought I could reason with him, beg him to let me go. I'll never forget the way his face changed, the darkness that fell over him so quickly it stole the breath from my lungs. He didn't yell. He didn't strike me. No, that would've been too easy. Instead, he reminded me of the power he held. He told me about my family—their whereabouts, their daily routines. He said it so calmly, like he was discussing the weather. And then he told me what would happen if I ever tried to leave.
I haven't dared since.
The longer I stayed, the more I saw. I've watched him give orders, watched men die because of him, watched him destroy anyone who crossed him. But he's never hurt me—at least not physically. That's what confuses me the most. He'll come home after spilling blood, after doing unspeakable things, and he'll be so gentle with me, as if there's nothing but kindness inside him. But I know better. I've seen what he can do, and I know how thin the line is between his affection and his fury. One misstep, one wrong word, and that darkness will turn on me.
I live in constant fear, but the worst part? I'm starting to forget what freedom felt like. I used to dream of escaping, but now… now I just survive. It's easier that way.