The apartment felt emptier during the day than at night. Somehow, the shadows seemed less threatening when Adrian wasn't there when I could hear my own thoughts instead of the quiet hum of his presence.
Breakfast was a silent affair. I cooked quickly, using techniques I had learned over years of surviving on my own. He didn't sit at the table; he hovered by the kitchen counter, scrolling on his phone, perfectly still.
"Do you always do everything yourself?" His voice was flat, almost bored, but it carried that same undercurrent of control.
"I… I'm used to it," I replied. Not that I wanted to admit that I had spent my life managing on my own, avoiding mistakes, avoiding people.
"Good. Independence makes things easier."
I frowned, but didn't ask what he meant. Some things, I had learned, were better left unsaid. Some things… better left unseen.
Living together under the same roof, even if it was only nominally "married," was nothing like I expected. I thought perhaps we could coexist silently, maybe even establish a fragile truce. I was wrong.
Rules governed everything. The apartment became a map of forbidden territory. His office? Off-limits. His personal belongings? Untouchable. And my own space? Constantly scrutinized, as if he had a map of my routines memorized.
"You're in my way," he said one evening, moving past me too quickly as I tried to pour myself some water.
"I'm just" I began, but he didn't wait. He adjusted his tie, eyes cold, and walked away.
In his world, even breathing without permission was transgression.
Despite everything, I noticed him noticing me. I couldn't deny it any longer. The subtle shifts in his gaze, the way his jaw tightened when I spoke back, the almost imperceptible pause when my hand brushed against a table, when my hair fell just right against my shoulder…
I hated that I felt it. That part of me, buried under layers of self-preservation, fluttered at his attention.
And yet, I kept my guard. Always. I had to survive. Survival was my only currency in this marriage.
That night, I found myself in the living room, sprawled on the couch, trying to read a book to distract myself. The faint hum of the city outside seemed a comfort, but it wasn't enough.
He appeared without warning. I hadn't heard him enter. He moved like a predator in the dim light, silent, deliberate.
"You're not in bed," he stated, like it was an accusation.
"I couldn't sleep," I said, not lifting my eyes.
He stood over me, tall, impossibly composed. "You will follow the schedule. Lights out. Midnight."
I swallowed. "I… I didn't know that was mandatory."
He didn't reply. His eyes scanned me, sharp and assessing. "It is."
I wanted to argue, to throw back words like daggers, but I didn't. I simply nodded, curling tighter into the couch cushions.
And then he sat.
The air between us shifted immediately. Not words, not actions, but presence. Heavy, charged, undeniable. He leaned back, and the dim light caught the angles of his face strong jaw, dark eyes, almost imperceptibly tense lips. I could feel the heat radiating off him, despite the distance.
"You're defiant," he said finally, almost a murmur, but it was loud in my ears.
"I'm… cautious," I said, careful.
He smirked. A tiny, almost impossible-to-notice movement that made my stomach twist. "Caution is boring. Defiance is… interesting."
The word hung in the air like a challenge.
Days passed, and the tension didn't let up. Each glance, each movement was a test, a war of silent wills. I found myself measuring every word, every step. And I noticed the moments when he faltered, just slightly when his attention lingered a fraction too long on me, or when his fingers brushed against an object that I had just touched.
He wanted control, yes. But there was more beneath the surface. Something I couldn't name, and didn't want to.
Then came the first confrontation.
"You left the door unlocked," he said abruptly one evening, standing in the doorway of my room like a shadow.
"I" I started, but he held up a hand. "Don't argue. You will follow the rules. Always."
I crossed my arms, not out of defiance, but out of habit. "I forgot. I'm sorry."
His gaze softened just slightly and then hardened again. "This isn't about apology. This is about obedience. Learn it."
I flinched, and for a moment, I saw him differently. Not just as a man who could crush me with a word, but as someone who… needed me to adhere. Needed control. And that need… was intoxicating in a way I didn't understand.
The nights grew harder. Every time I tried to sleep, I imagined him watching me, judging me, testing me. And sometimes, I caught glimpses of him doing exactly that lingering by the doorway, standing too close, breathing slightly uneven.
One night, I couldn't take it anymore. I confronted him in the kitchen.
"You're always here. Watching. Judging. I… I can't breathe."
He turned to me slowly. Eyes dark, intense, commanding. "Then prove you can survive under my rules. Prove you're not just surviving… but thriving."
I didn't understand at first. Thriving? With him? In this cage?
And then he stepped closer. Just enough for me to feel the heat, not enough to touch, but enough to send a shiver through me.
"Or you can leave," he said.
I wanted to. I almost did.
But a part of me a small, defiant, stubborn part wanted to stay. Wanted to fight. Wanted… to see how far I could go.
The tension reached its peak the next morning. A note on the kitchen counter, written in his precise, sharp handwriting:
"You think you can challenge me. You don't know the rules yet. Obedience is safer… but defiance is tempting. Choose wisely."
I stared at it for a long time, heart pounding.
And for the first time, I realized this contract marriage wasn't just survival. It was a battlefield. One where neither of us would surrender easily.
And somewhere deep inside, I felt a dangerous thrill.