The first month of marriage was a honeymoon in name only.
Ethan had imagined lazy mornings tangled in sheets, shared coffee runs, quiet evenings building a home together. Instead, he woke up most mornings to an empty bed, the sheets cold where Aria should've been.
Sometimes she came home at dawn, smelling of smoke and cheap perfume. Sometimes she didn't come home at all.
When Ethan asked, she laughed it off.
"Relax, poet," she'd say, pulling his face into her hands, her smile dazzling enough to blind him. "You know I hate being caged. Marriage isn't a prison."
"But it's…commitment," he'd whisper.
Her eyes would soften for a moment—just enough to hook him deeper. "And I'm committed. To you. Just…not to routine."
Their apartment was chaos. Clothes strewn everywhere, empty wine bottles under the couch, strange perfume lingering in the bathroom. Aria thrived in the mess. Ethan cleaned silently, telling himself this was what love looked like: patience, sacrifice, endurance.
Daniel came over once and shook his head at the sight.
"This isn't a home, Ethan. It's a circus."
Ethan forced a smile. "It's…her way of living."
Daniel's voice hardened. "No. It's her way of using you."
Ethan changed the subject.
The red flags multiplied.
One night, Ethan found lipstick-stained receipts for hotel rooms tucked into Aria's purse. He confronted her, heart in his throat.
She didn't deny it.
Instead, she tilted her head, amused. "So what if I get bored sometimes? You knew who I was when you married me."
"I thought marriage would change things," Ethan said, voice breaking.
Aria's laugh was low, dangerous. "Marriage doesn't change people, Ethan. It just exposes who they've always been."
And still, when she kissed him that night, he let her. Because her touch was both poison and medicine, and he didn't know how to live without it.
At parties, she wore her ring like an accessory, not a vow. Ethan would watch as she flirted openly, her hand resting on another man's arm, her laugh too intimate.
When he tried to pull her away, she'd snap:
"Stop embarrassing me! You act like I'm your property."
Later, she'd return home drunk and curl against him, whispering, "You're my only one, you know that, right?"
And he'd believe her, even as his chest ached with doubt.
The final straw should have been the night she didn't come home for three days.
Ethan called, texted, begged. No answer.
When she finally stumbled in, she was wearing another man's jacket. Ethan's hands shook as he confronted her.
"Where were you?"
Aria smirked, tossing the jacket aside. "Out."
"With who?"
"None of your business."
"I'm your husband!"
"And? That doesn't mean you own me."
Tears stung Ethan's eyes. "Aria…why do you do this? Why me? If you don't love me—"
Her expression softened, just for a moment. She walked up to him, cupped his face, and whispered:
"Because you'll never leave me. No matter what I do. And that kind of love is addictive."
Then she kissed him, silencing his protests. And like always, he let her.
That night, Ethan lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The red flags were everywhere, screaming at him, clawing at his heart.
But love—his twisted, desperate version of it—kept him chained.
He told himself he couldn't leave. He wouldn't.
Because without Aria, he was nothing.
And she knew it.