OMAS EDESI

The first time I realized my husband was going to kill me, he was still inside me. He had one hand wrapped loosely around my throat, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, moving with that slow, controlled rhythm he always used when he wanted me to feel every inch. Sweat slid down the valley of my spine. The city lights from the penthouse windows painted gold across the sheets. Everything looked perfect. Expensive. Safe. Then he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and whispered, “I know about the letters.” My body went cold even while it was still clenching around him. I had been writing to another man for eleven months. Soft, careful letters. The kind you write when you’re lonely in a marriage that looks perfect from the outside. The man had never written back with a name. Only a symbol. A small black crown drawn in the corner of every page. I thought I was safe. I thought I was clever. Adrian pulled out of me slowly, almost gently, and rolled onto his side. He didn’t look angry. That was the scariest part. He looked calm. Curious. Like he was studying a problem he already knew how to solve. “You’ve been very careful,” he said, voice soft. “Different drop points. Different paper. You even changed your perfume on the days you went to mail them. I almost respected it.” I couldn’t speak. My heart was slamming so hard I could feel it in my teeth. He reached over to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and took out a small black box. Inside were every single letter I had ever written. Including the ones I had burned. Including the ones I had never even sent. My stomach dropped. “How” “I own the building where you thought you were being clever,” he said simply. “I own the people who work there. I own the cameras you thought were broken. I own everything that touches your life, including the man you’ve been writing to.” The silence that followed was worse than shouting. Then Adrian smiled. It was the same smile he used at charity galas when someone complimented his young wife. “The man with the black crown?” he continued. “His name is Cassian. He’s been working for me the entire time. Every letter you poured your loneliness into… he brought straight to me. We’ve been reading them together. Sometimes out loud. Sometimes while I fucked him.” The room tilted. I stared at my husband and understood, too late, that the marriage had never been about love or even money. It had been about ownership. About building a perfect, beautiful cage and watching me decorate it with my own hands. Adrian leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth the way he always did after sex. “You wanted someone to see you,” he whispered. “Someone to want you without the money, without the name, without the performance. Congratulations. You got your wish. Cassian wants you. He’s obsessed with you. He’s been begging me for months to let him have a turn.” He sat up, completely unbothered, and reached for his phone. “He’s downstairs right now,” Adrian said. “Waiting for my signal. The question is… do I give it?” I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Adrian looked at me with something that almost resembled tenderness. “You have two choices, my love. You can stay exactly where you are, pretend none of this happened, and continue being the perfect wife who never asks questions. Or…” He tilted his head. “You can open that door and meet the man who knows every secret you’ve ever written down. The man who’s been hard for you since the first letter. The man who already told me he doesn’t care if he has to share you… or take you.” He stood up, completely naked, completely calm, and walked toward the bathroom. At the door he paused. “I’ll give you ten minutes to decide,” he said. “After that, I decide for you.” The door clicked shut behind him.