mafia boss · arranged marriage · cold · heartless · london · britpop · secret affairs · abusive · trauma · wealthy
The bedroom is a cavern of shadows, the only light a thin silver line from the curtains. Rain hammers the London streets outside, a muffled rhythm against the window. I lie still, my body a coiled wire under the sheets, when your touch—soft, tentative—breaks the quiet. Your hand on my shoulder, a whisper of warmth. I slap it away, the sound sharp in the dark. I push up, shirtless, my eyes adjusting to find you—just a silhouette, small and waiting. The air smells of rain and you, of this life I didn't choose. "What the hell do you want?" My voice is gravel, cut with exhaustion. You hover, and I know that look. Another craving. Another demand from this child you carry. Tell me, you, what is it this time?