The days bled together in a blur, each one heavier than the last, as if the weight of the world was crushing me, draining my very essence. Alexander's control didn't just smother me physically—it invaded every corner of my mind, every waking moment. I no longer felt alive. I was simply existing, a puppet hanging from his strings. Every breath, every movement was dictated by his will. The more I fought, the tighter the ropes pulled.
Mornings were the worst. At exactly 8 a.m., the door creaked open, and my stomach twisted in anticipation. His presence flooded the room, filling the air with a tension I could feel in my bones. Wordlessly, he headed for the closet, his motions as calculated as a chess player's. He chose my clothes—my clothes—without even sparing me a glance. No choice. No voice. Only submission.
One morning, he picked a black dress, tight and short, clinging to my body like a second skin. It revealed more than it concealed, highlighting every curve I wished to hide. The fabric felt suffocating, a constant reminder of my status: his possession. But resistance was pointless. It would only invite punishment. So, I obeyed, swallowing my disgust.
When I glared at him, his eyes sharpened, colder than before. "Put it on, Emma," he ordered, his voice a low threat. "Or I'll make you."
Fury surged in me, but deep down, I knew—defiance would only make it worse. The collar around my neck would shock me if I didn't comply. I was trapped, powerless.
As I dressed, his gaze never left me, a predator's eyes scanning its prey. Every inch of me felt exposed, vulnerable. There was satisfaction in his eyes, a twisted pride in seeing me bend to his will.
Standing before him, dressed as he wanted, I felt his gaze linger, savoring every detail. "Perfect," he murmured, the words laced with dark satisfaction. "You look beautiful… when you obey me."
The bile rose in my throat. Beautiful? Was that how he saw me? An object to be admired, controlled? I didn't speak. I gave him nothing but silence, letting my anger simmer beneath my calm exterior.
He approached, lifting my chin with his hand. It wasn't tenderness—it was ownership. "Don't you think it's time to eat, Emma?" His voice was soft, but there was a cold edge to it that made my blood run cold.
I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, unyielding. "I'm not hungry," I lied, my voice strained with forced defiance.
His grip on my chin tightened. "You'll eat what I give you," he stated, his voice hardening. "It's not about what you want. It's about what I say."
The weight of my helplessness pressed on me. He wasn't feeding me; he was feeding on my submission, savoring my inability to fight back. The meal was small, delicate—another reminder of my place in his world.
The smell of eggs hit me like a punch to the stomach. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to swallow, fighting the urge to gag. He was watching me, waiting for me to obey. I hated that he could make me feel this way—small, insignificant. But protesting would only make it worse, so I choked down the disgusting bite, my stomach recoiling with every swallow.
I stood frozen, waiting for him to lose patience. His eyes flashed with that dangerous anger I'd learned to fear. "You'll eat, Emma," he growled. "Or I'll make you."
I hated him. I hated this. But I wasn't strong enough to refuse. "Fine," I spat, my voice thick with venom. "I'll eat. But don't think for a second that you've won."
I forced a bite of the revolting egg, my body trembling with the effort to keep my emotions in check. The tears burned in my eyes, but I wouldn't let him see me break.
His smile twisted with smug satisfaction. "I already have, Emma," he whispered. "You are a puppet whose strings I control. And you will do as I say." My heart pounded with a mix of fear and defiance, knowing that this battle was far from over.
I wanted to puke, but I swallowed hard and managed a smile, determined to show him that I wasn't broken yet.
The air between us thickened, suffocating with unspoken tension. I wanted to scream, to escape, but his gaze locked me in place, trapping me in a prison of his making. I hated him. I hated everything about him. Yet, even as my fury swelled, a part of me—a twisted part—responded to him. The way he made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered in his world. And that part terrified me.
After the meal, I expected a moment of relief. But Alexander never relented. He cornered me, his body pressing against mine, his touch a light tease at first, a reminder of who controlled me. Every nerve in my body screamed for freedom, but the more I resisted, the more he pulled me in.
"I want you to understand, Emma," he whispered in my ear, his voice low and dangerous. "Every time you think you can run, every time you try to escape, it only makes me want you more."
His hands traced down my arms, leaving a trail of heat. The mix of fear and desire tangled inside me, impossible to untangle. His lips brushed my ear, his breath sending a shiver down my spine. I was losing myself, caught in a web of conflicting emotions. His touch was intoxicating, and I hated myself for it.
"Don't make things hard for yourself," he murmured, his grip tightening on my waist. "Just accept that you belong to me." His words sent a chill down my spine, and I knew there was no escape from his possessive hold.
I wanted to push him away, scream, and claw my way out of this nightmare. But my body betrayed me. It responded to him, even as my mind screamed in protest. I was caught in a vicious cycle of resistance and surrender.
His lips crashed into mine, demanding, ruthless. I fought. I did. But it was futile. My body—my traitorous body—betrayed me again.
"I own you, Emma," he murmured against my lips, his voice thick with possession and lust. "And you'll learn to accept it."
His hands roamed over my body, possessive, dominating. I hated myself for how I responded. I wanted to scream. I wanted to fight. But my strength was gone. I was a prisoner of his touch, suffocated by his control.
His touch was a reminder of who controlled me, who I belonged to. Every nerve screamed to flee, yet my body betrayed me, responding to him even as my mind screamed for escape. It was as if the more I hated him, the more my body craved his touch. The need for his approval, even in the most twisted form, clashed with the fury bubbling inside me. It wasn't just physical. It was psychological torture, and I was losing the battle.
"No…" I pushed, my voice barely a whisper as I struggled to push him away. But his grip only tightened, his eyes dark with possessiveness. Then, without thinking, I slapped him.
The sound of my palm against his skin rang through the room.
For a moment, everything stopped. Shock flickered in his eyes, and a small part of me dared to hope that I had crossed a line he couldn't ignore. But then his expression darkened, and the air around us thickened with danger.
His grip tightened on my wrist, pulling me closer, his voice a low whisper. "How dare you?"
Panic flooded me. I had pushed him too far. But his grip tightened, his eyes burning with anger and a menacing edge to his voice.
"You've made a mistake," he said, his voice cold as ice. "And now, you'll regret it."
The weight of his words crashed over me, suffocating me. The consequences were inevitable. The storm had already begun, and I was trapped in its center.
"You think you can slap me and get away with it?" He growled, his voice low and menacing. "Let me make one thing clear, Emma: You're mine. And I'll break you, piece by piece, until you understand that."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. His grip was unyielding. I can feel his rage pulsating through his veins, and I know there is no escaping his wrath. The realization settled in, heavy and suffocating, as I braced myself for the storm that was about to come.
"I'll make you pay for this," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear.
The words lingered in the air, a storm cloud waiting to burst. I could feel it—the certainty that this was just the beginning.