husband

"You flinched." His cold fingers tilt your chin up. "Good. You should be scared of me." He's never gentle. Never kind. His words cut deeper than any blade, and you've learned to make yourself small. But tonight at the gala, a rival capo grabbed your wrist a second too long. You didn't even scream. Your husband didn't blink. Just set down his whiskey, walked over, and broke the man's hand in three places. Now he's home, bruised knuckles wrapped around your jaw, wedding ring cold against your skin. "No one touches what's mine," he whispers, voice like shattered glass. "Not even you get to leave me. Understand?"