#obbsession

Dark Valarr x reader

SUMMARY: A devoted wife. A loving mother. A life that looks perfect from the outside. You have everything he promised would make you happy. So why, after all this time, do you still feel haunted by the woman you could have been?

CW: RAPE/NON-CON, marital rape, misogyny, power imbalance, coercion, golden cage, verbal threats, infidelity/emotional cheating, emotional sabotage, manipulation, gaslighting, implicit stockholm syndrome, jealousy, déjà vu, economic and emotional dependence.

WC: 10. 9 K

Part one

You woke wrapped in warmth.

Not merely the warmth of morning light filtering through the tall windows, nor the lingering comfort of blankets tangled around your legs. It was a different kind of warmth. Familiar. Constant. Woven so deeply into the fabric of your life that it had become impossible to separate from it. Valarr’s arm rested securely around your waist, keeping you close even in sleep, as though years of marriage had trained his body to seek yours without conscious thought. For a few moments, you remained completely still, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing behind you and the distant murmur of a house that, for once, had yet to awaken. No children racing through the halls. No hurried footsteps. No voices demanding breakfast. Only silence and the rare luxury of existing within it. A silence that felt almost sacred after so many years of family routines, hectic mornings, and small responsibilities that began long before sunrise. For a handful of minutes, the world seemed to have paused solely for the two of you.

Slowly, you opened your eyes and allowed yourself to enjoy the moment. The room was bathed in a soft golden glow; the first rays of dawn stretched lazily across the polished floorboards and rumpled sheets. Beside you—or rather, behind you—rested the man who had occupied nearly every chapter of your adult life. Husband. Father of your children. The person whose presence had become so familiar that sometimes it surprised you to remember there had once been a version of yourself who had never known him. A version who had slept alone, dreamed alone, and planned a future without ever imagining Valarr Targaryen at the center of it. It felt strange to think about now. Strange to remember the young woman you had been before he became such an absolute constant. Because after so many years, after so many shared memories, after so much time spent building a life together, it was difficult to tell where your story ended and his began.

A small smile touched your lips.

Even now, after all these years, he still slept exactly the same way.

Possessively.

Not cruelly. Never that. Rather with the unconscious certainty of someone who had spent years loving the same person and saw no reason to stop. One arm around your waist. One hand resting lightly against your stomach. As though, somewhere deep within sleep itself, he still refused to allow too much distance between you. As though even in dreams there remained a part of him that needed to feel you nearby in order to be completely at ease. It was an old habit. One of many he had developed during the early years of your marriage and never abandoned. Some people stopped reaching for each other after enough time had passed. Valarr had never been one of them.

Carefully, trying not to wake him, you turned your head slightly to look at him over your shoulder.

The effort was pointless.

Valarr had always been absurdly aware of your presence.

Almost immediately, his brow furrowed faintly. Then he opened his eyes. For a second he seemed disoriented, caught somewhere between sleep and reality, suspended in that hazy space where thoughts were slow to form. Then he saw you.

And smiled.

The transformation was immediate.

It was not the smile the public knew. Not the polished expression that appeared in photographs, meetings, interviews, and charity galas. This one was softer. Warmer. Younger, somehow. A private smile reserved for very few people in the world.

Entirely yours.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning.”

His gaze lingered on yours for another moment before he leaned forward and pressed a lazy kiss against your shoulder. The gesture was so automatic, so natural, it nearly made you laugh. As though his first instinct upon waking was still to seek you out. As though the years had not diminished in the slightest that quiet need to show affection even in the simplest moments.

“You’re awake.”

“So are you.”

“Unfortunately.”

That earned exactly the reaction he wanted.

Your laughter broke the silence of the room, soft but genuine, and the satisfaction that appeared on Valarr’s face was immediate. As though making you laugh remained one of his favorite accomplishments. Perhaps it always would. There was something almost boyish in the way he seemed to treasure every one of your smiles, something that had never entirely disappeared no matter how many years passed or how many responsibilities settled onto his shoulders.

Without warning, he pulled you closer.

You protested weakly when your back collided once more with his chest.

“Valarr.”

“No.” He protested.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I know exactly what you were going to say.”

“Oh, do you?”

“You were going to suggest that we get up.”

You paused. “Maybe.”

“Terrible idea." His arms tightened slightly around you.

“You’re a grown man.”

“I am.”

“You have responsibilities.”

“I do.”

“You have meetings.”

“I know.”

“And three children.”

Valarr buried his face in your hair. “I’ve decided to ignore all of those facts.”

Another laugh escaped your lips.

The house would awaken soon. One of the boys would inevitably start an argument before breakfast. Your daughter would probably demand everyone's attention at once. There would be schedules to follow, obligations to attend to, and people waiting for both of you. The world would begin moving again, and you would each return to the roles you had been playing for years. Parents. Spouses. Responsible adults. But not yet. There were still a few stolen minutes left before the day truly began. A brief space where no responsibility could reach either of you.

For now, only this existed.

The warmth of the morning. The quiet comfort of familiar arms wrapped around you. And the simple, suffocating certainty that, after all these years, Valarr still held you as though he could not quite believe you were real.

Morning arrived slowly, pouring golden light across the tangled sheets and the comfortable silence of the bedroom. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave the bed. After so many years of marriage, there existed between you a familiarity so deep that it no longer required words to sustain itself. Valarr remained stretched out beside you, watching you with the same quiet attentiveness he had always reserved for you. One hand rested on your waist while the other absently traced the smooth fabric of the silk nightgown he himself had bought for you months earlier. The material slipped beneath his fingers like water.

For several minutes, nothing else happened.

And yet, it was enough.

Valarr tilted his head and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. Then another near your jaw. Another beside your neck. Slow, absent-minded kisses, born more from affection than desire. As though he simply enjoyed your existence. As though he still found it impossible to fully comprehend that after all these years you remained there, sharing his bed, his surname, and his life. His lips barely brushed your skin as the morning unfolded around you. Every gesture seemed as natural as breathing.

“Good morning,” he murmured against your neck.

“Mmm.”

“Fascinating response.”

“You already wished me good morning.”

That earned another smile from him.

For a while, you remained exactly like that, barely moving, enjoying the rare tranquility offered by a house that had not yet fully awakened. The children were still asleep. The staff had not yet begun filling the hallways with activity. For a few minutes more, the world seemed to belong solely to the two of you.

Eventually, you opened your eyes completely and turned your head slightly to look at him.

“You should get up.”

Valarr immediately frowned. “No.”

“You have a meeting.”

“Later.”

“Valarr.”

“Not yet.”

“Valarr.” You insisted.

“You’re a tyrant.”

That drew a small laugh from you. “You have an investors’ meeting in two hours.”

“Two hours is plenty of time.”

“Not for someone who takes forty minutes deciding which tie to wear.”

His offended expression appeared instantly.

“That happened once.”

“Three times.”

“Twice.”

“Four.”

Valarr sighed dramatically before leaning forward to place another kiss beside your jaw. “I was trying to be romantic.”

“And I’m trying to stop you from being late.”

“Your priorities are questionable.”

Even so, he eventually surrendered. He almost always did when it came to you. With obvious reluctance, he finally abandoned the comfort of the blankets and allowed you to drag him toward the breakfast waiting downstairs.

And breakfast, like everything else in that house, was already prepared. The dining table had been arranged long before either of you descended the staircase. Fresh fruit. Warmly baked bread. Coffee. Tea. Fresh juices. Everything positioned with impeccable precision by people whose entire existence seemed devoted to anticipating needs before they were even voiced.

The mansion operated like a perfectly calibrated clock. There was cleaning staff who kept every room immaculate. Personal chefs responsible for every meal. Gardeners. Drivers. Tutors. Nannies when necessary. Nothing was ever lacking.

And nothing was lacking for your children, either.

All three were growing up surrounded by extraordinary privilege. They received the finest education available. They studied languages, music, literature, history, and art from an early age. Their personal libraries contained more books than many schools could afford. They had never known financial insecurity. Never gone hungry. Never wondered whether there would be enough money for something essential. Everything they needed appeared before they even had to ask for it.

From the outside, your life appeared perfect. Perhaps that was why nobody saw the cage. Because the most effective cages rarely look like prisons.

You did not work. Nothing was ever denied to you, so no one questioned why. The professional opportunities you had once pursued with such determination had slowly disappeared behind years of marriage, motherhood, and comfort. The need for a career of your own had gradually dissolved beneath reasonable arguments, practical decisions, and promises that there would always be time later.

Later.

Always later.

Meanwhile, the days continued to pass.

You could not leave the property without informing someone first. You did not have a mobile phone of your own beyond the house line. The television channels available were limited. Access to the internet depended almost entirely on Valarr’s computer, when he allowed it or when he happened to be present.

There was always a logical explanation for every restriction. Security. Privacy. Protection. Convenience.

It never looked like control. It never looked like a prohibition. It never looked like an order. And that was precisely what made it so difficult to identify.

Valarr loved you.

That much was undeniable.

He adored you with an intensity that remained obvious even after all these years. He showered you with affection. Surrounded you with comfort. Listened to your preferences. Remembered your likes and dislikes. He still bought you books, dresses, flowers, and small gifts inspired by conversations you yourself had forgotten.

And perhaps that was the cruelest part of all. A prison built by someone who loved you was still a prison, even when its walls were lined with silk.

And some nights, when the house finally fell silent and the rest of the family was asleep, you would find yourself staring into the darkness beyond the windows, wondering what your life might have looked like if you had boarded that plane all those years ago.

The question never lingered for very long.

Because by morning, Valarr would be kissing your cheek again, the children would be racing through the hallways, and the house would awake, and the cage would begin to feel like a home again.

The feeling vanished almost as quickly as it had arrived.

The distant sound of a door opening somewhere in the house, the muffled voices of the staff beginning their morning routines, and the faint rustle of Valarr’s footsteps disappearing briefly toward the dressing room eventually pulled you back into the present. As happened almost every time, the uncomfortable thoughts were pushed into a quiet corner of your mind, buried beneath the familiarity of routine. There was breakfast to share. Children to wake. An entire day waiting beyond the walls of the estate.

By the time you finally descended the stairs a few minutes later, the dining room was already flooded with morning light. Vast windows allowed golden rays to spill across the long polished table, illuminating the flawless tableware, the freshly arranged flowers, and the abundance of food that had been prepared long before any of you appeared. Fresh fruit. Warm bread. Homemade preserves. Eggs. Coffee. Tea. Fresh juices. Everything arranged with the impeccable precision that characterized a household where needs were met before they were even expressed. The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the aroma of warm bread and melted butter. Everything looked perfect.

Too perfect.

You took your seat as a maid discreetly filled your coffee cup, and for a few brief seconds, you enjoyed the rare silence that preceded chaos.

It lasted exactly that long. Seconds.

“Mom!” The voice echoed through the house before you even saw its owner.

Your daughter came racing down the hallway at full speed, her hair still slightly tousled from sleep and carrying an amount of energy that seemed physically impossible for someone who had only just woken up. She launched herself directly at you without the slightest intention of slowing down, forcing you to open your arms just in time to catch her before she collided with the table. The little girl immediately settled against your side, wrapping her arms around you.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Good morning.” The response was immediate. “Dad wouldn’t let me stay up late!”

At the opposite end of the table, Valarr did not even look up from his coffee. “Because it was eleven at night.”

“I wasn’t tired.”

“You fell asleep on top of a book.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It counts exactly the same.”

The outrage that appeared on your daughter’s face was so genuine that you struggled to suppress a smile.

A moment later, the boys arrived. With them disappeared any remaining possibility of peace. The two of them crossed the dining room arguing at full volume about something that had clearly begun long before they entered the room.

“I’m telling you, you can’t win a war using only cavalry.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Valarr closed his eyes. “Good morning to you two as well.”

Neither responded, far too occupied with proving the other wrong. That earned a small laugh from you. Some things never changed, and the stubbornness of those two boys was one of them.

Little by little, breakfast unfolded amid overlapping conversations, endless questions, and constant interruptions. Your daughter insisted on telling you about an extraordinarily complicated dream involving a dragon, a gigantic library, and a pink horse that, for some reason, could speak several languages. One of the boys was trying to convince Valarr to let him participate in an academic competition the following month. The other argued with both of them simultaneously while attempting to prove he was right about a historical event he had read about the night before. Voices blended together. There was laughter. Complaints. Dramatic protests. Resigned glances.

Chaos. Beautiful chaos.

For a while, it became easy to forget everything else because this, too, was real. The children’s laughter. Small hands reaching for yours across the table. The way your daughter unconsciously leaned toward you while she spoke. The way the boys sought their father’s attention even while pretending to argue with him.

And Valarr. Always Valarr.

Seated at the far end of the table with a cup of coffee in his hands, watching the children whenever he thought no one was looking. There was something almost endearing in those fleeting expressions. Pride. Affection. Satisfaction. A quiet happiness he rarely showed the rest of the world.

This was real. More real than any dream. More real than any lost opportunity. More real than any career.

“Mom?” Your youngest son’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You blinked. “Yes?”

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

The question arrived with such complete innocence that, for a moment, time itself seemed to stop. The knife you had been using to cut fruit remained suspended above your plate.

Across from you, Valarr seemed to go still as well. Only for a second. Long enough.

“Why do you ask?” his voice carried from behind the rim of his coffee cup.

“Our teacher asked us to write an essay.” He shrugged. “I want to be a historian.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Last week you wanted to be an astronaut,” you added.

“I can be both.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

The argument immediately resumed, but you barely heard any of it because you were still trapped inside the question.

What did you want to be when you were little?

The answer came at once. You remembered perfectly.

That girl who studied until dawn. The brilliant student who had arrived at university determined to conquer the world. The young woman who dreamed of international offices, constant travel, ambitious projects, and a career built entirely through her own merit.

You remembered her. You still did.

Even though she seemed to grow more distant with every passing year.

“Mom.”

You blinked again. “Yes?”

“You didn’t answer.”

You smiled. A small smile. Polite. Practiced. “I wanted to work very hard.”

“That’s not a profession.”

The laughter was immediate.

“I know.”

The conversation carried on as though nothing had happened. The boys returned to their debate. Breakfast continued. The moment seemed to dissolve into the familiar noise of the morning.

And yet, when you lifted your gaze, you found Valarr watching you from the opposite end of the table.

He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t speaking. He was simply looking at you.

As though he had heard the answer you never actually gave. As though both of you knew exactly what that answer had been. And for one brief moment, far too brief for the children to notice, something heavy passed between you.

Then your daughter asked for more jam. One of the boys launched into yet another absurd argument. The room filled with voices once more.

And the morning moved forward as it always did.

—

The following morning, Valarr left the house with an unusual sense of urgency.

It was not something obvious. In fact, to anyone who did not know him as well as you did, it would have seemed like an entirely ordinary morning. He woke early, kissed the children on the forehead before they came downstairs for breakfast, reviewed several documents while eating, and answered a few brief phone calls regarding an important meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Everything appeared routine, predictable, perfectly integrated into the orderly machinery that constituted his life.

And yet, when he finally rose to leave, he left the plate in front of him untouched. Not the coffee—the coffee he finished down to the very last drop. But the eggs, fruit, and toast remained practically untouched.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Valarr barely looked up from the papers in his hands. “I don’t have much time.”

“Val." An uncomfortable pang of worry settled in your chest.

“I’ll eat something at the office.”

He said it with the same casualness someone might use to comment on the weather before leaning over your chair, pressing a distracted kiss into your hair, and walking out of the dining room without a backward glance.

The conversation should have ended there. And yet, as you stared at the abandoned plate, a small feeling began to take root inside your chest. It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, but over the years you had grown accustomed to taking care of him in ways so small that sometimes you barely noticed them yourself: reminding him to rest, forcing him away from work when he had been awake for too many hours, making sure he ate during particularly demanding periods. Valarr was brilliant—extraordinarily brilliant—but he was also perfectly capable of forgetting basic human needs whenever something captured the full extent of his attention.

So, sometime around midday, you made a decision.

You would bring him lunch.

You spent far longer getting ready than was strictly necessary. Much longer. Perhaps because you had not truly left the house in weeks. Perhaps because the idea of stepping outside your daily routine felt pleasant. Or perhaps because some part of you still enjoyed the expression that appeared on Valarr’s face whenever you made a particular effort with your appearance.

The dress you chose was elegant without being extravagant, crafted from a light fabric that moved softly around your legs whenever you walked. Your hair was arranged with care, and your makeup was subtle and refined. Natural enough to appear effortless, deliberate enough to highlight exactly what you wanted highlighted.

When you finished studying your reflection, you felt something close to satisfaction. It had been a long time since you had dressed up simply because you wanted to. A long time since you had looked at yourself as a woman and not exclusively as a mother.

Afterward, you collected the lunch the chefs had prepared for Valarr and left the estate.

The corporate headquarters dominated several entire blocks of the financial district. Glass. Steel. Money. Power.

Even after all these years, it remained impressive. The building seemed to rise above everything around it, reflecting the sky across its gleaming façade and projecting a presence so imposing it was impossible to ignore. The car had barely come to a stop before you stepped onto the sidewalk, surrounded by executives, assistants, and employees moving in and out of the main entrance with the accelerated efficiency characteristic of large corporations.

And that was when you heard your name.

“Y/N?”

You turned. Recognition came immediately.

It was the student from the Aegon Foundation Ball. Or, more accurately, the former student.

Years had passed. The university boy was gone, replaced by a man in an immaculate dark suit, a corporate identification badge hanging around his neck, and a confidence far more settled in the way he occupied space.

For a moment, both of you seemed equally surprised. Then he smiled. A genuine smile.

“Well.” Amusement lingered across his features as he looked at you. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you here.”

“Neither was I.” The gears in your mind scrambled to remember his name. “I don’t mean to be rude, but your name was...?”

“Robert,” he finished for you. “It’s been years.”

“Yes.”

“A lot of years.” His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice carried an unexpected warmth. “You look— incredible.”

The sincerity of the compliment drew a small smile from you.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.” His eyes studied your face as though trying to reconcile the woman standing before him with the memory he carried of the university student you had once been. “I don’t think you’ve changed at all.”

“That is objectively false,” you protested.

“No, seriously.” He shook his head. “You’re magnificent.”

A faint warmth rose to your cheeks. Not necessarily because he was flirting, but because it had been a very long time since someone outside your immediate circle had looked at you that way. As an individual. As a woman. Not simply as Valarr Targaryen’s wife.

“Do you work here?” The question came casually, almost innocently, and yet it caught you off guard.

“I…”

The answer died before it could fully form. Because no. You did not work there. You did not work anywhere. You had no office. No position. No access badge. No name engraved on a glass door. Nothing besides your husband's last name as access to this life.

The uncomfortable feeling appeared for only a moment before you managed to conceal it.

“I’m here to see my husband.”

The smile returned immediately. “Your husband works here?”

You nodded. “He is the owner. Valarr Targaryen.”

Recognition was immediate. “Oh.” For a second, he looked surprised. Then not so surprised. As though, after considering it for a moment, it made perfect sense. “I don’t know why I feel like I should have guessed.”

That made you laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little.” His smile widened. “Definitely a little.”

The conversation continued for several more minutes. You talked about the weather, former classmates, professors you both remembered, and the years that had passed since graduation. It was an easy, pleasant conversation. The kind you rarely had with anyone outside your immediate family.

And before leaving, he pulled a card from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“By the way.” He offered it to you. “I doubt you want to spend hours talking about corporate economics, but if you ever want to grab a coffee, catch up, or just get out of the house—” The pause was brief. Deliberate. "Call me.”

You looked at the card. Then at him. Finally, you smiled and accepted it.

“Thank you.”

By the time you reached Valarr’s office, he was already working.

The transformation that crossed his face the moment he saw you was immediate. A smile appeared before you had even reached his desk, warm and sincere in a way very few people were ever allowed to witness.

“There you are.” He sounded pleased. As though he had been waiting for you.

He abandoned the documents he had been reviewing and rose to his feet while his gaze traveled slowly over your figure, lingering on the dress, your hair, and every small detail you had taken care with that morning. The satisfaction in his eyes was so obvious it was almost ridiculous. “You look beautiful.”

That earned a half smile from you. Not magnificent, as Robert had said. Beautiful.

“Good morning to you too.”

Valarr rounded the desk and approached, taking your face gently between his hands before kissing you slowly, with the easy familiarity of someone who still found pleasure in doing so after all these years.

“You brought me food.”

“Someone had to.” You murmured, "Don't want you to starve to death in the middle of a meeting."

“How lucky I am.”

“Very.”

“I know.”

The afternoon unfolded in an absurdly familiar way.

First, Valarr insisted that you stay.

Then he insisted that you sit with him.

And eventually, he decided that sitting with him meant sitting directly in his lap, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps for the two of you, it was.

For hours, you remained comfortably settled between his arms while he reviewed reports, signed contracts, participated in virtual meetings, and answered phone calls. One of his hands almost always rested somewhere against you, at your waist, on your arm, or laced through your fingers, as though he needed constant reassurance that you were still there. Every now and then, he would lower his head to press a kiss against your shoulder, your cheek, or your hair, small displays of affection scattered throughout the afternoon with such complete naturalness that they no longer seemed like conscious gestures at all.

It was near the end of the workday when you finally spoke.

“Val.” Your voice was soft.

“Hm?”

“I don’t like depending on the house phone.”

The hand resting at your waist stilled for the briefest moment, just enough for you to notice.

“I want a phone. My own phone”

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Valarr studied the documents in front of him for several seconds before lowering his gaze to yours.

“A phone?”

“Amazingly enough, yes.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward. “What a revolutionary concept.”

"I know"

“The world isn’t ready.”

You rolled your eyes. And, to your surprise, he simply nodded. “All right.”

You blinked. “All right?”

"Yes.”

“Just like that?”

Valarr smiled. A quiet smile. An unusually gentle one. “If you want a phone, you’ll have a phone.” His thumb brushed lightly across your side. “My wife will have everything her heart desires.” He leaned down and kissed your forehead. “I’ll take care of it this week.”

For a moment, nestled against his chest while the city began to illuminate beyond the towering windows and the final rays of sunlight disappeared between the buildings, you felt something close to relief.

Small. Insignificant. Real.

Without realizing that, inside your handbag, the business card that man had given you was still there.

Waiting.

—

During the first few weeks, it did not even feel like a conscious decision. It simply happened.

You had only received the phone a few days earlier, and although Valarr had agreed to give it to you without argument, without imposing any visible conditions and without even asking exactly what you wanted it for, something inside you still reacted to the small device with a caution that was difficult to explain. Perhaps because you had not owned one in years. Perhaps because, after so long living within other people's schedules, implicit permissions and carefully defined routines, even the simple possibility of holding a private conversation still felt strangely forbidden. That was why you never texted when Valarr was home. Not because he had ordered you not to. Not because he constantly monitored you. Not even because there was any concrete threat. It was something much subtler. Much older. A habit built over years. A learned reflex that made you slip the phone away the moment you heard the familiar sound of his car passing through the front gates or the staff announcing his arrival.

Never when he was there, so your conversations with Robert always happened during the day. While the children attended lessons. While Valarr worked. While the enormous house remained submerged in that elegant silence that sometimes felt comforting and other times unbearably empty.

At first, the messages were sporadic. Small. Harmless. A conversation about the Aegon Foundation. A casual question. A comment about an economic article. Then other things began to appear.

Memes. Far too many memes.

And you quickly discovered that the internet had evolved considerably during the years you had spent enclosed within that mansion.

Robert

I need to know something.

You

What?

Robert

Do you understand this meme?

[image]

He attached a picture of a terrified-looking cat sitting in front of a computer while a loading bar remained frozen at 99%.

You

Is it worried because the download isn't finished?

Robert

...

Oh my God

You're adorable.

You

Why?

Robert

That wasn't the answer.

You

Then I don't understand it.

Robert

I know.

That's what makes it better

That type of conversation began repeating itself with alarming frequency. Robert seemed to find endless amusement in your complete inability to understand modern references. Every meme became an improvised lesson. Every absurd video somehow led to an even more absurd explanation.

Robert

Look at this.

He attached a video.

A man dressed as a shark was dancing in the middle of an office while electronic music blasted in the background.

You

Why are you sending me this?

Robert

Because it's art

You

No.

Robert

Yes

You

No.

Robert

Your inability to appreciate contemporary culture concerns me.

You

I think you're the one who should be concerned.

Robert

Impossible

I'm too busy being iconic.

You

What does that even mean?

Robert

Exactly my point.

Little by little, you began looking forward to those messages. Not because you were in love. Not because you were seeking anything specific. Simply because they were light.Because nobody expected anything from you. Because Robert spoke to you as though you were merely a person and not a wife, a mother or an extension of someone else's life. Not reduce the wife of Valarr. Sometimes the conversations stretched on for hours. Other times they consisted of nothing more than ridiculous exchanges.

Robert

Have you seen Shrek?

You:

Yeah

Robert

Good

Then we have a solid foundation for this friendship.

You

Is that how you determine your friendships?

Robert

Absolutely.

Some people have standards. I have Shrek.

You

How reassuring

Robert

Thank you.

And for the first time in years, you found yourself laughing alone at a screen. Without realizing it. Without overthinking it. That small window into the outside world was slowly reminding you of a version of yourself you had forgotten.

At first, Robert never asked why you disappeared every evening. Eventually, he noticed. Because it happened at exactly the same time without exception.

Robert

I have a theory

You

That's concerning

Robert

You disappear exactly when the workday ends

You:

That's not true

Robert

It's 5:46.

I'll bet twenty dollars you disappear within an hour.

You

I won't

Robert

We'll see 👀

At 6:52, you stopped replying.

At 8:15, another message arrived.

Robert

HAHAHAHAHA.

I knew it.

Over time, it became a private joke. Robert began referring to your disappearances as the blackout. He sent memes of employees clocking out. Soldiers leaving battlefields. Astronauts losing communication with Earth.

Robert

Signal lost. The captain has abandoned the mission.

F.

You

What does F mean?

Robert

I can't keep doing this

You

Robert.

Robert

It's a reference

You

To what?

Robert

One day I'll give you an intensive internet course.

You

I'd rather learn quantum economics.

Robert

That's exactly why you need the course.

And yet, beneath all those jokes, the same silent rule remained. You never texted when Valarr was home.

Never.

The phone disappeared the moment you heard his car entering the driveway. Conversations ended immediately. Notifications were silenced. As though some part of you still believed it needed to remain hidden. Perhaps because you knew it did. Perhaps because you did not want to ask yourself why. And that was precisely why the mistake caught you completely off guard.

That afternoon had been unusually quiet. The children were occupied with their tutors. Valarr was attending a meeting that, according to his schedule, would last well into the evening. You were seated beside one of the library windows while Robert sent an endless stream of ridiculous videos that you barely understood.

Robert

Look at this

THIS IS IMPORTANT.

The video showed a man falling off a treadmill while dramatic music played in the background.

You

Why is this funny?

Robert

Because he fell. Are you blind?

You

That looks painful.

Robert

Oh my God

You're impossible

You

I don't understand the internet

Robert

It shows.

It's fascinating to observe you.

You smiled despite yourself. And kept texting. What you did not notice was the notification that appeared several minutes later.

Val ❤️

How is your afternoon?

The message disappeared beneath the others. Not because you intended to ignore it. You simply did not see it.

The conversation with Robert continued. One meme led to another. One question led to a story. Then came absurd photographs from a conference he was attending and sarcastic commentary about one of the speakers. Time slipped away unnoticed until, eventually, you heard the distant sound of a car entering through the front gates.

Your heart gave a small jump.

Instinctively, you locked the phone. Habit. Always habit.

Valarr arrived home approximately twenty minutes later. You found him at dinner. Impeccably dressed as always. Tired, though attempting to conceal it. Handsome in a way that was almost irritating. The children monopolized much of the conversation, recounting world-changing developments involving lessons, books and sibling disputes.

For a while, everything seemed perfectly normal.

Until dinner ended. That was when he spoke. Not immediately, he punished you with the wait. Not accusingly. Simply when the two of you were finally alone.

“Everything alright this afternoon?”

You looked up. “Of course.”

“Really?” Something in his tone sharpened your attention immediately.

Valarr remained leaning against the back of his chair, watching you with that calm expression that had always been far more difficult to interpret than any open display of anger.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know.” His voice remained soft.Too soft. “I texted you.”

Understanding hit instantly. The phone. The message.

“I’m sorry.” The apology came quickly. Honestly. “I must have— I must not have seen it.”

Valarr held your gaze for several seconds. “You didn’t see it.”

“No.”

“You were online.” That made you blink. It did not sound like a question. It sounded like a fact.

“I saw that you were online.” The silence that followed was small. Brief. Enough.

For the first time since you had begun talking to Robert, you felt an uncomfortable sting move through your chest. Valarr smiled. He did not look angry. That was precisely what made it unsettling.

“It just seemed strange.”

“I have the right not to answer immediately.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and the moment they settled between you, you knew it had been a mistake.

Not because it was untrue. Because it was true. A simple truth. A normal truth. A reasonable truth.

Something shifted in Valarr’s eyes only for an instant. Only a shadow. So brief you could almost have convinced yourself it had never been there. Then it vanished.

“Of course you do.” His smile returned immediately. Perfect. Impeccable. Familiar. “I was only... asking.”

Yet, as the conversation continued and the evening moved forward with apparent normality, an uneasy feeling remained lodged somewhere in the back of your mind. For the first time since you had received that phone, you had the strange impression that Valarr had not merely noticed that you failed to answer.

He had noticed exactly when you didn’t.

—

The gala unfolded with the carefully constructed perfection of events that seemed to exist solely to demonstrate how much money could be spent in a single evening without anyone feeling guilty about it. The main ballroom shimmered beneath a cascade of crystal chandeliers whose reflections multiplied across polished marble floors and champagne glasses held by impeccably manicured hands. An orchestra played soft music from an elevated platform at the far end of the room, subtle enough not to interrupt conversations, elegant enough to constantly remind everyone that this was no ordinary gathering. Business executives, politicians, philanthropists, investors, and heirs drifted between carefully curated groups, exchanging greetings, business cards, and promises with the same ease that other people discussed the weather. Everything smelled of exclusive perfumes, fresh flowers, and old money. Everything was refined. Everything was immaculate. Everything was exactly the sort of environment in which Valarr seemed to breathe with insulting ease.

You, of course, looked exactly as you were supposed to look. The gown had been chosen weeks earlier by a designer whose fees likely equaled the annual salary of many families. The jewelry was understated yet impossibly expensive. Your makeup was flawless. Your hairstyle remained untouched despite the passing hours. The image was irreproachable. The perfect wife. The mother of his children. The elegant figure standing beside him in photographs, magazine covers, and charity events. You had learned to play that role so effortlessly that most people would never suspect the effort it required. You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You listened when you were supposed to listen. You contributed to conversations with precisely the right amount of intelligence and charm. No one saw the cracks. No one saw the exhaustion. No one saw the questions that still lingered in the quietest corners of your mind.

Meanwhile, Valarr moved through the crowd as though he had been born specifically for evenings like this. He greeted people whose names you barely remembered. He carried on simultaneous conversations with executives, investors, and political representatives without ever losing the thread of a single one. He smiled. Charmed. Persuaded. Shined. And yet, even in the middle of all of it, he still found ways to make sure you remained close. A hand briefly settling against the small of your back as you crossed the room. A fleeting brush of his fingers against yours. A quick glance from the opposite side of the ballroom to locate you among the crowd. Small gestures. Familiar gestures. So constant that they had become part of the landscape of your life. Most women would have considered them romantic. You no longer knew what to think of them.

It was during one of those conversations that you met Emma, the woman from the news.

At first, she seemed like just another guest among the dozens of people you were introduced to at events like these. Elegant. Self-assured. Intelligent. The kind of woman who naturally belonged in environments where important decisions were made over exclusive dinners and private meetings. Yet as the conversation progressed and you began listening to her speak about her work, something uncomfortable started stirring inside you.

Emma managed international projects. She traveled constantly. She supervised teams spread across different countries. She spoke casually about negotiations in London, meetings in Singapore, conferences in Berlin, and opportunities in places you had once dreamed of visiting when you were still a student. She did so with the effortless confidence of someone who had built that life herself and was barely aware of how extraordinary it actually was. As you listened to her describe multimillion-dollar contracts, strategic decisions, and flights booked with only a few hours' notice, you began to feel something you could not immediately identify.

Because Emma resembled someone.

Not physically.

Not in the way she dressed.

Not even in the way she spoke.

Emma resembled the person you had once imagined becoming.

The student who stayed awake until three in the morning because she was convinced that one day she would lead important projects. The young woman who had received an impossible international job offer. The girl who had believed the entire world was waiting for her.

Every word that left Emma's lips seemed to open a small window into a life that had ceased to exist before it ever truly began. And the longer you listened, the harder it became to ignore the uncomfortable feeling growing slowly beneath your ribs.

Then Emma smiled. A kind smile. A sincere smile.

And she said something that shattered whatever emotional stability you still had left.

“I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

You blinked lightly. “Me?”

What was so special about you that this woman, so successful, so prosperous, wanted to meet you in person?

“Of course.” Her laugh was soft. “You two are practically a legend.”

The comment drew an automatic smile from you. The polite one. The social smile. The smile you offered when you did not know what else to do.

Emma shook her head gently. “No, I’m serious.” She picked up a champagne glass from a passing tray. “You’re so lucky.”

The statement was so casual that it took you a moment to process it.

“Lucky?”

“Of course.” Emma shrugged. “If a rich, attractive man who was completely in love with me asked me to give up everything to be with him...” She smiled. “I’d do it happily.”

The feeling was immediate.

Like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. Heavy. Cold. Inevitable. Emma continued speaking without noticing a thing. To her, it was a compliment. An expression of admiration. A romantic fantasy.

“I mean, look at him.” She discreetly gestured toward the other side of the ballroom. Valarr was surrounded by people. Smiling. Listening. Shining beneath the lights, as always. “There are women who would kill to have a life like that.”

And perhaps that was the worst part. Emma was not being cruel. She was not trying to diminish you. She was not trying to hurt you.

She was just looking at your life from the outside and seeing exactly what everyone else saw. A perfect marriage. A perfect house. A perfect husband. A perfect family. A happy ending.

And suddenly you discovered that the image exhausted you.

For one brief second, you wanted to ask her whether she would still admire that life if she knew what it had cost. Whether she would still call it luck if she understood what it meant to abandon a part of yourself so important that, even years later, it still surfaced in your thoughts when you least expected it. Whether she would still envy you after hearing about the dreams you had buried in order to build that happiness.

But you said nothing. You simply smiled. The same perfect smile. The same smile that had spent years replacing more honest answers. And not long afterward, you found an excuse to leave.

You wandered through the ballroom without any real destination, weaving through clusters of guests you barely registered. The music continued to play. Conversations continued to unfold. Laughter continued to fill the room. Everything remained exactly the same, and yet you felt as though something inside you had shifted slightly out of place. Eventually, you found a nearly empty side terrace, sheltered from the main crowd by enormous glass doors. The night air brushed against your face the moment you stepped outside, and for several seconds you stood perfectly still, trying to recover a composure you did not even understand why you had lost.

Then it happened. Not dramatically. Not spectacularly. You simply realized that you were crying.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you stared at the city lights stretching across the distance. No sobbing. No noise. No visible collapse.

Exactly like university. Exactly like exam season. Those nights when you locked yourself inside a library because the pressure felt unbearable and you could not afford to fall apart in front of anyone.

Those tears. The same ones. And perhaps that was what hurt the most. Because they reminded you of who you had once been. How desperately you had wanted certain things. How fiercely you had fought for them. And how much they still mattered.

You remained there for several minutes. Then you breathed. You wiped your face. You breathed again, and you pulled yourself back together. As you always did. As you always had.

When you finally found Valarr again, he smiled the moment he saw you approaching. That smile disappeared almost immediately.

He knew you far too well, had learned to read even the smallest changes in your expression years ago.

“What is it?” His voice was soft. Concerned. Genuine.

“I don’t want to stay any longer.” The words came out quietly. Controlled. They were enough.

Valarr studied you for only a moment before nodding. He didn’t argue. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to persuade you to remain. He simply extended his hand toward you. “Let’s go.”

And so you did.

The limousine glided through the illuminated avenues while the city drifted past the darkened windows in an endless procession of lights and shadows. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Valarr sat beside you, watching you from the corner of his eye, clearly trying to decide how much he should push. Eventually, he was the one who broke the silence.

“It didn’t seem like a bad evening.”

You didn’t answer.

“Did someone say something?”

Silence.

“Are you alright?”

You kept your gaze fixed on the window. Then he began talking about other things. The children. A meeting scheduled for the following week. A new project. Anything that might fill the silence without forcing you to respond.

And you simply listened.

If you spoke, you risked saying something irreversible. Something you had spent years avoiding. Something that sounded far too much like the truth. Eventually, Valarr fell silent as well. His hand found yours on the seat between you. He held it. Gently. Tenderly. Lovingly.

And as the limousine continued its journey through the darkness, you realized something infinitely more painful than any argument.

Valarr still loved you, more than ever.

And that was precisely why you could not stop wondering whether it was possible to love someone deeply and still miss the person you might have become without them.

—

That night, after the gala, Valarr did not press.

He did not try to pull explanations out of you, nor did he demand that you put into words something you were clearly not ready to name. During the drive home, as the limousine moved through the city's illuminated avenues and golden reflections from the skyscrapers drifted across the darkened windows, he remained beside you in silence. At first, he spoke a few times, asking gentle, cautious questions with that carefully measured patience he tended to adopt whenever he sensed something was hurting you, but every attempt was met with brief, distracted answers—or silence altogether. Eventually, he stopped trying. He understood that you did not want to talk. He understood that any additional words risked pushing you even farther away. So he simply stayed there, occupying the seat beside you, watching you discreetly when he thought you weren't paying attention, while you kept your eyes fixed on the city lights and pretended that the tears shed in that secluded corner of the ballroom no longer existed.

When you arrived home, he didn't ask, either. hat was precisely what made it so difficult to stay angry with him.

Valarr could be controlling. He could be confident. He could be unbearably certain of himself. But he was also capable of recognizing when a wound needed silence more than solutions. Over the years, he had learned to read you with unsettling accuracy. He knew when to argue with you, when to challenge you, and when to simply sit beside you and wait.

That night, he chose to wait.

Later, while the two of you were getting ready for bed, he found you standing in front of the master bathroom mirror, motionless, staring at your reflection without truly seeing it. Your makeup was gone. Your gala dress lay abandoned over a chair. All that remained was the emotional exhaustion left behind by a conversation that should not have meant anything and yet had somehow managed to pry open a crack you had spent years trying to ignore.

You didn't hear him enter.

You only noticed his presence when he appeared behind you and his hands found your waist with the familiarity of someone who had spent more than a decade loving you.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke. He simply stood there, holding you. The weight of his body against your back felt warm. Safe. Familiar.

Home.

Slowly, Valarr rested his chin on your shoulder as he looked at your reflection beside his in the mirror.

"You're thinking too much."

A small, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

"How observant."

His fingers intertwined over your stomach. "I don't want you to be sad."

It should have been a simple sentence. An innocent one. And yet something about it caused the knot you had been carrying in your chest for hours to tighten even further. Because you believed him.

Valarr could make monumental mistakes. He could hurt you. He could suffocate you without realizing it.But you had never doubted that. You had never doubted that he loved you.

His lips brushed your temple. Then your hair. Then your cheek. Small, absent minded kisses. Affectionate. As though he were trying to piece you back together little by little.

"Come to bed."

And you did.

That night, he held you while you slept, one arm wrapped around your waist and the steady rhythm of his breathing warm against the back of your neck, as though he wanted to protect you even from the things he could not understand. For a few hours, it worked. For a few hours, Emma disappeared. The woman you might have become disappeared.

The cage felt like a home again.

Until the phone vibrated at two seventeen in the morning.

The sound was insignificant. Almost imperceptible within the absolute silence of the room. Enough.

Valarr's eyes opened almost immediately. Years of responsibility had trained him to react to any interruption in the night, and for several seconds he remained still in the darkness, trying to identify the source of the noise while the glow of a screen faintly illuminated the bedside table.

Beside him, you remained deeply asleep, your head buried in the pillow, your breathing slow and even, completely unaware.

The phone vibrated again. Valarr frowned slightly. It wasn't normal. Most people who needed to contact you used the house line. Almost nobody texted you at that hour.

Without thinking much about it, he picked up the device. The screen lit up. And the name that appeared was enough to erase every trace of sleep.

Robert.

A new message.

For several seconds, he simply stared at the name. He opened the conversation.

At first, he read calmly.

Then he kept scrolling. And scrolling. And scrolling. The memes. The private jokes. The absurd conversations. The messages exchanged over entire weeks. The little details. The photographs of books. The references that only the two of you understood. The conversations about history. About films. About abandoned dreams. About things you had never mentioned in front of him.

Nothing was explicitly romantic. Nothing constituted an affair. That was precisely why it began to infuriate him. Because this was not desire. It was intimacy. It was trust. It was time. It was a part of you that existed completely outside of him, and Valarr was not accustomed to that.

By the time he finished reading, the expression on his face had become impossible to decipher. Then the phone vibrated again. Another message.

Robert

I'm starting to think your husband has you locked up 😂

Something dark crossed Valarr's face, he slowly turned his head toward you, and woke you up.

"Wake up." You didn't react. "Y/N."

Your brow furrowed slightly. "What...?"you murmured sleepily.

"Wake up."

The restrained hardness in his voice finally pulled you completely out of sleep. You blinked several times. Confused. Disoriented.

And then you saw the illuminated screen held in front of your face. You recognized the chat. Every trace of sleep vanished instantly.

Valarr held your gaze. "Explain it to me."

You slowly sat up. "What are you doing going through my phone?"

"Explain it." He repeated it.

"H-he's my friend."

A short laugh escaped him. There was no humor in it. "Your friend?"

"Yes." The words were spat out awkwardly, unnaturally.

"Interesting. You've never mentioned him."

"Because I knew exactly how you'd react."

Something hardened in his expression. "Like what?"

"Like this." You pointed at the phone. "As if I've done something terrible."

"And what exactly am I supposed to think?"

"Think that I have a friend."

"One you text every day?"

"Yes."

"One you keep hidden?"

"I didn't hide him!" Your voice rose a fraction.

"I had to find out at two in the morning, my love. If that isn't a secret, I don't know what it is."

The silence that followed was heavy. Uncomfortable. Valarr stood and began pacing across the room, he needed to vent this anger. He would vent it or it would explode on you like the tide against the sand.

"What does he have that I don't?" The question sounded sincere. Too sincere.

"This isn't a competition—"

"Then explain what it is." You stared at him for several seconds. Then you answered.

"He listens to me."

Valarr went rigid. "I listen to you."

"Do you? Really?" Your voice began to harden. "Then tell me when the last time was that you asked me what I wanted to do with my life."

That silenced him.

"Y/N..."

"No. Answer me." He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no answer.

"I don't work."

"Because you don't need to."

"I have no independence."

"You have everything."

"That's not the same thing."

"You have this house."

"It isn't mine."

"You have security."

"It isn't freedom—"

"You have a family."

"And I love them." Your voice trembled. "I love them more than anything, I love our children, I love their chaotic laughter and the boys' debates." Silence settled between you. "... But I lost myself too."

Those words seemed to strike him physically, they were the only words he had never wanted to hear.

"Is that really what you think?"

"I think I've spent years trying not to." For the first time since the argument began, Valarr looked away.

"Everything I've done has been for you." He revealed the truth so that you would come closer to scrutinize it. So that you would approach it with a magnifying glass and, with the utmost care, discover the truth.

"I know."

"Everything."

"I know."

"Then why does it sound as if I'm the villain in your story?" The question hung between you, heavy and suffocating. "Do you know what bothers me the most?" he continued. "The way you talk as if I'm the one who took something from you. As if I'm responsible for everything you regret. You accepted the ring. You chose the wedding date. You—"

"Valarr..."

"No. You listen to me for once." He pointed the phone at you.

"I gave you everything. The house. The children. Security. Opportunities. A life most people will never have." He moved closer to the bed, his anger carefully restrained.

"I never said you didn't."

"You act like none of it matters." His eyes dropped to the screen. Then he read aloud. "'Sometimes I think you would've been incredible running a company. You have that kind of mind.'"

Your stomach dropped.

"'You have that kind of mind,'" he repeated slowly. "Is that what you want to hear? That you could've conquered the world?"

"Stop doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Turning it into something it isn't."

"What I see is a man telling my wife exactly what she wants to hear. Looking for approval."

"He's my friend—"

"He's a man."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Of course it means something." The response came immediately. "Men don't spend weeks listening to a married woman's problems for no reason."

Your eyes locked onto his. "Do you hear yourself?"

"I'm being realistic."

"No. You're being insulting."

"I'm telling the truth."

"What truth, Valarr?" you demanded, meeting his gaze. "That women can't have friends?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"I'm saying you're naïve."

Naïve.

The word landed between you. Again. The same word from the Aegon Foundation ball. The same superiority. The same constant need to correct you.

"Do you know what the real problem is?" you asked at last. "Every time I try to talk about something that hurts me, you end up reminding me of everything you've given me. Not because you want to understand me. Because you want me to feel guilty."

For the first time, something faltered in his expression. Only for a moment. Then he answered.

"Because you should be grateful."

The silence that followed was absolute. He seemed to realize what he had just said a second later. Too late. You were still staring at him as though you were looking at a stranger.

"You owe all of this to me," he continued. "This entire life. The house. The name. The opportunities. The stability. The security."

Each word sounded worse than the last. Crueler. More honest. Closer to something that had been buried for far too long.

"Without me, Y/N, you wouldn't have any of this."

Your breathing became uneven. He kept talking.

"Without me, you wouldn't have this house. You wouldn't have this position. You wouldn't have this life." Then came the final blow. "Without me..." His voice dropped into something cold and terrible. "You wouldn't be who you are, I built you" Something inside you broke. "You chose to be with me, Y/N," he said. "You let me put a ring on your finger. You accepted my name. You said yes when the priest asked whether you would take me as your husband."

The tears continued to slide down your cheeks as you tried uselessly to wipe them away. Every time you brushed one aside, another seemed to take its place immediately. The exhaustion of entire years felt lodged inside your chest, crushing everything beneath its unbearable weight.

It wasn't just Robert anymore. Or Emma. Or even the argument you had just had. It was something larger. Something older. Something that had been growing in silence for far too long. Valarr watched you for several seconds from the other side of the room. He was still angry.

You could see it in the way he refused to look away from you, as though doing so might mean losing control of something. You could see it in the tension of his jaw, in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the measured rhythm of his breathing as he forced himself to remain calm when he clearly wasn't.

Finally, he crossed the distance between you. He did it suddenly, as though remaining still for one more second had become impossible. You instinctively stepped backward until the edge of the mattress struck the backs of your legs. Valarr stopped in front of you.

Too close, invading a space he normally respected when he was angry. The argument still burned between you. You could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his jaw tightened, and in the fixed stare that never left your face.

When you tried to move around him, he stepped in the same direction.

He didn't touch you, but he didn't let you escape the conversation either.

"Valarr." His name came out exhausted.

That was when his hands found your arms and he pulled you into a sudden embrace. Not careful. An embrace that was too tight, too desperate, as though he were trying to convince himself that you were still there.

You immediately tensed.

Valarr felt it. Of course he did. And yet he didn't let go. Not when you pushed against him. He rested his forehead against your hair and closed his eyes "What am I supposed to do?" he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Because I don't know what else to give you anymore." His arms remained around you as he continued speaking, each word more vulnerable than the last. "I've tried to give you everything. Everything I thought would make you happy." He whispered against your hair. "But there's still hope. "You've always been stubborn. You were in college," he inhaled from your hair, drawing in your scent. "That's why I fell in love with you, because of your stubbornness. Your inexhaustible denial of scarcity, your hunger for more, your... Your sharp rejection."

Suddenly, almost at the same level as that unexpected embrace, he placed his palm on your neck, and with a movement as deliberate as it was abrupt, he turned your face toward the large mirror beside the bed. You saw everything. How the anger still inhabited his body, the weight he imposed on yours, the fear that accompanied your features. "No please, no, no Valarr—" The hand on your neck moved over your mouth with a thrust. A plaintive whimper tried to escape your lips. It couldn't.

"Keep it to yourself. I've heard enough from you and your bitchy behavior." His other hand lifted your nightgown. You didn't make the mistake of resisting; you learned long ago that it wasn't worth it. You cried as you always did since that time in his car on graduation day: silently. His digits pressed against your clothed intimacy, awakening worldly sensations in your core. You could see it.

He didn't bother to remove the fabric. Just folded it to one side, a finger abruptly entering your sex, thrusting against your rubbery walls. Tears streamed from your cheeks into the palm of his hand. Again and again and again you felt his fingers slide in and out of you. You couldn't complain. You weren't going to complain. You just needed to take it, that's what you'd done from the beginning. "Look at yourself," he said, pressing your face against the mirror. Strong. Needy. "Robert will never have this. He doesn't love you. He loves what he thinks you represent, "The successful girl from college, The brightest mind on campus. The promise" grazed your clitoris with his thumb, your pussy squeezed his finger. "You're not that girl anymore. You're my wife."

He withdrew his finger from your hole, now wet with sexual instinct, not desire or arousal. He lowered his pants and boxers to his thighs, just enough to free his erect cock. He brought his hips closer, and the rubbing against your sex served as medicine for his desire. Those eyes, so different and kind, were pools of primal desire. "I love you... God, how I love you" He confessed against your lips. "Don't make this any harder for both of us."

He entered. His cock fitting inside you. It felt just like he always wanted it to, wet, tight, and undeniably his. While he was thrusting into your very being, your eyes were fixed on the reflection in the mirror. Life was an eternal paradox, you thought.

A few years ago, you sensed it in his lingering glances as he walked through the university hallways. In how he condemned you after the student council president election. It was there when you rejected him under the moonlight. It spoke after your conversation with Robert at the Aegon Foundation ball. Reflections don't lie, and now, with the indelible image in front of you as his hips slammed against you, you saw it.

You could see the monster you had for a husband. Tangible.

obssessive!rafe cameronwho constantly checks on you, texting or calling just to make sure you’re okay, even if you’re in the next room.

obssessive!rafe cameron who notices every little thing about you — new perfume, new hair clip, even how your mood shifts — and remembers it all.

obssessive!rafe cameron who pulls you into his chest in public like he’s marking his territory, but with that fake-casual smirk on his face.

obssessive!rafe cameron who becomes annoyingly charming around your friends just to make sure they know you’re his.

obssessive!rafe cameron who keeps little souvenirs of things you do together — a wrapper from your favorite candy, a ticket stub, a tiny rock from the beach — all tucked away in his pockets or his room.

obssessive!rafe cameron who gets ridiculously intense when anyone flirts with you, suddenly quiet, eyes narrowed, and that hand on your waist tightening ever so slightly.

obssessive!rafe cameron who randomly texts you “thinking about you” or “don’t go anywhere without me” just to make sure you notice.

obssessive!rafe cameron who won’t let you sleep alone sometimes, dragging you into his bed even if you protest, just so he can feel you there.

obssessive!rafe cameron who constantly finds excuses to touch you — brushing your hair, holding your hand, resting a hand on your thigh — just to remind you he’s always there.

obssessive!rafe cameron who smirks but can’t hide how much he needs you, and if you try to pull away even slightly, he tightens his hold without thinking.

was wondering if you could write obsessed sukuna x reader please ☺️

thank you!

yesss i gotchu! 😋 and im soso tired literally starting this at 9am w/ no sleep so other then being tired im good! hope you have an amazing year:D ANYWAYS PLS ENJOY I DIDNT PROOF READ!!

obsessed!sukuna can’t let you out of his sight

sukuna was always very clingy, which was normal because so are you. so you just see that as a major green flag, (the muscles on this man block every red flag you’ve ever “seen”)also the fact that everywhere you go you see your big boyfriend standing in a corner. “baby!” you’d call out everytime and rush over to him, though he looks like the actual rudest person on the planet, he blushes everytime you run into his arms.

one day your having a busy day, with school, work right after a hour long lecture and then a doctors appointment after, you have absolutely no time to text anyone or even watch one TikTok video, or a Instagram reel. after work, you shove your lecture notes into your tote bag and bolt out the door with your phone and bag in hand. “ughh, this sucks!” your running to the bus you don’t realize your boyfriend is blowing your phone up. you catch the bus and sit then catch your breath.

“im legit gonna pass out.” you go in your bag and wipe your forehead. “let me call this doctor so he doesn’t cancel my appointment, again.” you call the doctor confirming that your gonna be a couple minutes late. you look around because Sukuna always told you beware of your surroundings, then you see it.. him.

its honestly a bit creepy for a man of his size to be watching you, next to a alleyway just… standing there. you wind up getting scared and calling sukuna and you see the shadow that looks exactly like sukuna grab a phone and answer, he smiles “hey baby.” “hi babe.. uh, where are you?” your voice is shaky. “just out, why you okay?” you wanna believe him.. so you do, you nod and walk to your doctors appointment and forget about this whole thing.

when you got home that night sukuna looked tired on the couch, he looks loving, not that stalkerish straight face he had in the alleyway earlier. “hi baby” he lets out a rough grunt and doesn’t even look up from his phone. your confused, he never acted like this before.. “uhm, did you eat?” “i know you saw me.” your heart drops. “what?” he smiles, not his normal smile its a unsettling menacing grin. “you scared of me? hm, scared of your boyfriend stalking you now?” he stands up and before you can even finish blinking he grabs your throat firmly but not roughly pressing you against the wall. “sukuna..”

“do you still love me?” his voice menacing. “y-yes..” “be honest doll.” you look into his eyes, they look so.. different. “yes, yes of course i love you baby” you can’t help but feel scared, and he can definitely tell so he lets go of your throat and rubs your cheek with his thumb. “you scared?” his mocks. “im not gonna hurt you, you know that doll.” he tilts his head. “I know.. it’s just, a bit creepy the way you were watching me from the alleyway ryo.” he smirks and nods, listening. “i love you, but you don’t have to watch my every move, I promise I’m not cheating.” “i know your not, i trust you.” you nod at his response and sigh. “so what now doll?” you look up into his eyes. “i know you wanna ask me something.” you look away and fidget with your hands as his hands drop to his side.

“are you obsessed with me?”

“yes”

“ive never loved anyone more then i love you, I actually think i can live without you my love.” you don’t know what to say. “so yes, im obsessed with you, i have your pictures all over my house, my phone, my books, car I take you everywhere with me even if your not there, id actually kill for you y/n.” his voice sounds oddly calm for someone who’s confusing their obsession with their girlfriend. “so what, your gonna leave me now? because if you do my obsession will only get worse-“ “it’s hot.” you look up at him and shrug. “what?” he looks genuinely confused. “it’s hot? that your obsessed with me even though im yours, forever.” you smile. “I mean I won’t lie, im obsessed too.” he smiles with you and kisses your cheek and whispers.

“trust me babydoll, not as much as me.”

“ugh your so hot whe your like this, be like this more?” you kiss his neck and rub his bicep. “what are you doing?” “i like you like this, scarily hot.” he chuckles and looks into your eyes and grins then rubs your head. “love you doll.”