"Eat."
The command was another low growl, devoid of any warmth. It was an order, not an invitation. Naomi flinched, her eyes still fixed on her plate. She hesitantly reached for the fork and knife, her fingers trembling slightly. The metal felt cold and alien in her grasp. She began to cut the steak on her plate, the knife scraping against the porcelain with a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the cavernous room. Each motion was a small act of obedience. The meat was tender, cooked to perfection, but it tasted like ash in her mouth.
"We don't usually eat this late in this household," he said, his voice breaking the silence. He finally placed his phone face down on the table, giving her his full, undivided attention. It was more terrifying than when he was ignoring her. "But since it was just our wedding day, I'll make an exception."
He paused, letting the "exception" hang in the air, a reminder that this night was a unique circumstance and that the rules would be different from tomorrow. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze unwavering.
"From tomorrow onwards, you will be downstairs and at the table by 8 o'clock sharp. Any later, and there will be consequences."
The words were delivered with the same cold finality as all his other commands. There was no room for discussion, no room for error. Naomi's throat constricted, a painful, dry swallow.
She gulped, the sound a pathetic little squeak. She knew exactly what men like him meant by "consequences." She nodded anyway, a small, motion of her head. It was a gesture of pure, unadulterated submission. She had learned her lesson upstairs. Rebellion was a luxury she couldn't afford. Survival, which she was quickly realizing, depended on her ability to anticipate his every command and comply without question. Submission wasn't just better than rebelling; it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Dinner was eaten in a silence that was heavier than any conversation. The only sounds were the soft chewing from Xavier and the delicate, hesitant clinking of Naomi's cutlery against her plate. She moved the food around, cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces, but bringing almost nothing to her lips. Every bite she took felt like a betrayal of her own body.
Finally, Xavier placed his knife and fork together with a soft, definitive click. He was done. Naomi had barely touched her food, her plate still full except for the few, shredded pieces of steak she'd managed to force down.
He pushed his chair back and stood up, his movement sudden and sharp. "You should eat to keep your strength up," he said, his voice flat. "You're married to a mafia boss, after all."
He turned to leave, then paused, as if a sudden thought had struck him. "Oh, and one last thing before I forget." He looked back at her, and a slow, cruel smirk spread across his face as he took in the sight of her, frozen and fearful. "I expect my wife to give me a goodnight kiss. Every night."
The words hit Naomi like a physical blow. She felt the blood drain from her face, her eyes widening in horror. He saw it, and his smirk only deepened.
"But of course, I'm being extra lenient today," he continued, his tone a mocking kindness. "I'll let you rest. But tomorrow, I expect you ready. And from my understanding, you should know how I like it." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or do you need a reminder?"
The memory of the wedding kiss flashed through Naomi's mind with sickening clarity, the bruising pressure, the public humiliation, the way her lips had felt swollen for hours after. She shook her head frantically, a desperate, silent plea.
"No... sir," she whispered, the words barely audible, a fragile thread of sound in the oppressive silence.
"Good girl," he said, his smirk growing wider, like a predator satisfied with his prey's submission. With that final, demeaning compliment, he turned around and made his way upstairs, leaving her alone at the empty table with the ghost of his threat and the cold, uneaten food on her plate.
Xavier
I watched her push that fucking food around her plate. Barely taking a bite. Pathetic. Did she think this was a hunger strike? A silent protest? Cute. I finished my meal, every last bite, while she just sat there, like a pale, trembling statue. I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor, and she flinched. Good.
"You should eat to keep your strength up," I said, my voice flat. "You're married to a mafia boss, after all." The implication hanging in the air. She'd need her energy for what I have planned.
I started to walk away, then turned back. Time for the next command. "Oh, and one last thing before I forget." I let a slow, cruel smirk stretch my lips as I watched the color drain from her face. "I expect my wife to give me a goodnight kiss. Every night."
The horror in her eyes was fucking priceless. It was like watching a switch flip behind those pretty brown eyes.
"But of course, I'm being extra lenient today," I continued, milking the moment. "I'll let you rest. But tomorrow, I expect you ready. And from my understanding, you should know how I like it." I leaned in, enjoying the way she shrank away. "Or do you need a reminder?"
I knew she didn't. I bet those fucking lips were still sore. She shook her head frantically, like a desperate little puppet.
"No, sir," she whispered.
Fucking perfect. The words were music to my ears.
"Good girl," I said, my smirk growing wider. She was learning. This was going to be fun. I turned and left her there, alone with her fear and a cold dinner. Let her stew in it. Tomorrow, the real training begins.
**
The heavy, repeated knock on her door the next morning, was not a gentle wake-up call; it was an invasive sound that hammered into her dreams, dragging her from sleep.
Naomi sat up in bed, her heart already pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She ran a hand through her messy hair, the strands tangling around her fingers, a physical manifestation of the chaos in her mind. The room was still dim, bathed in the soft, pre-dawn grey that seeped through the heavy blue curtains.
She fumbled for her phone on the bedside table, the bright screen making her squint. 5:45 am. A wave of despair washed over her. He owned her sleep now, too. She slipped the phone into the pocket of her pajamas, the soft fabric a small comfort against her skin.
She stood up, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, and walked to the door. On the way, she instinctively tried to straighten out the wrinkles on her expensive pajamas, a weak, pathetic attempt to present herself as something other than what she was: a terrified girl being summoned. With a deep, shaky breath, she opened the door.
Standing before her was a maid, her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her. She didn't look up, didn't make eye contact.
"Ma'am," the maid said, her voice quiet but clear, carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "Mr Thorne requests your presence in his study, immediately."
The word "immediately" landed like a stone in Naomi's stomach. At this hour? Her mind raced, a frantic scramble for a reason, a mistake she might have made. She hesitated for a minute, the silence stretching, the maid's unwavering posture a testament to the household's rigid rules.
"Alright," Naomi finally managed, her voice thick with sleep and fear. "Let me freshen up." It was a small plea, a desperate attempt to grab a few moments of privacy, to wash the sleep from her face and gather the shattered pieces of her composure before facing him again.
The maid's voice, came out though soft, was firm, leaving no room for negotiation. "No, ma'am. Please come with me immediately. Mr Thorne doesn't like to wait."
A fresh wave of cold dread washed over Naomi. She opened her mouth to protest, to plead for just five minutes, but the maid continued, her tone still professional but with an edge of urgency that was unmistakable.
"He specifically instructed that I have you in his office in fifteen minutes," she said, her gaze still fixed on the floor. "And twelve minutes have gone by already. I've been knocking for quite a while now."
The words hit Naomi like a physical blow. She immediately understood what the maid was implying. This wasn't about the maid's impatience; it was about her own survival. The maid was just another piece in Xavier's meticulously controlled world, a pawn who would face the consequences for any delay, just as Naomi would. They were both trapped, both subject to his absolute authority. The thought was terrifying, but it also extinguished the last flicker of rebellion in her.
Naomi simply nodded, the fight draining out of her completely. There was no time for freshening up, no time for a moment of peace. There was only obedience.
Without another word, she followed the maid out of the room. They moved in silence down the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space. The maid led her not to the ground floor dining room, but to the second floor, down a different hallway than the one leading to her own room. The air grew colder, the atmosphere more oppressive. Each step brought her closer to him, closer to whatever awaited her in the heart of his domain. The three minutes she had left felt like a countdown to her own execution.
The maid stopped right outside a pair of imposing, dark wood door, different from the one to Naomi's room. These were plain, solid, and radiated an aura of absolute authority and right now it was cracked slightly open. She raised a hand and knocked, the sound sharp and precise in the quiet hallway.
"Come in," Xavier's voice called back, clipped and distracted.
The maid pushed the door open, revealing Xavier's home office. It was a completely masculine space, a reflection of the man himself. One the wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, overlooking the dark grounds still enveloped in early morning mist. The other walls were lined with bookshelves, but they held not just books, but also what looked like artifacts and sculptures from around the world, each one a silent testament to power and victory. The air smelled of old leather and expensive coffee.
Xavier was behind a massive desk. He was typing away on his laptop, his focus absolute, his fingers moving with a rapid, practiced efficiency. He didn't look up as they entered.
"You sit," he said to Naomi, nodding briefly towards a single, leather chair positioned directly opposite him. It was a chair for a visitor.
Then, without even glancing at the maid, he spoke again, his voice flat and final. "You pack your bags and get out."
The words hung in the air, surreal and horrifying. The maid didn't gasp, didn't flinch. She simply gave a slight, almost imperceptible bow of her head and turned to make her way to the door, her acceptance of her fate a terrifying display of the house's unforgiving rules.
"What!?" Naomi exclaimed, the word bursting from her before she could stop it. She shot up from the chair she hadn't even sat in yet. "That's unfair!" she continued, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and outrage. "It's not her fault, it's mine. She didn't mean to be late." The words tumbled out, a desperate plea for a stranger she barely knew, a small act of defiance against the crushing injustice of it all.
Xavier finally stopped typing. He slowly lifted his head, his gaze shifting from his laptop to Naomi. He stared at her, his expression blank, his grey eyes devoid of any emotion. It was a look that was colder than anger, a look that dismissed her entire outburst as irrelevant.
"No one ever means to be late," he said, his voice dangerously flat. "They just are."
With that, he turned his attention back to the maid, who was now frozen at the door, her back to them. The unspoken message was clear: her protest meant nothing. His will was the only law that mattered here.