I gave her that necklace.
And she threw it like it meant nothing.
She doesn’t know what it meant to me.
She doesn’t know I picked it because it looked delicate but was sharp as hell where the clasp met the chain. She doesn’t know I watched her trace her fingers over it like maybe—just maybe—she liked the weight of belonging to someone.
Now it’s in pieces.
And so is she.
My jaw ticks. My hand closes around the edge of the desk, knuckles white with pressure. I should go to her. I should drag her back to the bed and make her wear what she broke, make her beg to be claimed again just to feel something solid beneath her feet.
But I don’t move.
Because watching her break?
It’s better than any drug I’ve ever tasted, more addictive than anything I’ve found before.
She stands there like she’s waiting for someone to come stop her. Someone to tell her she’s gone too far. But I don’t move from my chair.
She’s alone.
And I want her to feel it.
Let her sit in the wreckage. Let her watch her reflection fracture across the walls, a dozen broken pieces staring back at her. That’s what this room is now—just jagged versions of a girl trying too hard to pretend she hasn’t already submitted to the cage around her.
She’s pacing now. Back and forth. Wearing the floor thin with her movement. Nails digging into her palms like pain is a leash she can hold onto.
I lean forward, watching the tension twist through her like it’s a lover’s hand sliding beneath her skin. Every rage-fuelled inhale. Every too-fast movement. Every glance over her shoulder like she knows I’m watching but can’t find the eyes.
You don’t have to find them, darling.
I’ve already marked you.
She crouches near the shattered glass, trembling fingers hovering like she’s thinking about picking it up. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. My whole world shrinks to that one second—will she?
She doesn’t.
She stands, trembling, arms crossed over her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. Good luck with that. I already pulled the stitching out of her spine. It’s only a matter of time before she collapses under the weight of everything she thinks she’s hiding.
But I won’t go to her yet.
Not until she asks for something.
Not until she needs something.
Not until that fire in her turns to ash and she chokes on it.
Because this part? This is where most men get it wrong.
They rush in. Offer comfort. Feed the delusion of rebellion. But me?
I wait.
I watch.
I study the way her walls come down when no one’s in the room but her reflection—and even that she can’t look in the eye anymore.
