She was standing alone outside the college gates when I arrived. The same way she looked the first day I married her.
But now the world was watching. Mocking her apart in headlines and hashtags. And for some reason, she was still pretending none of it mattered.
"Get in," I said. She didn't argue , just quietly slipped into the passenger seat like she always did. No questions.
The drive was silent. My grip on the steering wheel was growing stronger . Rage buzzed under my skin .
I wasn't even sure who I was angry at more. Her, her father, the damn internet, or myself.
As soon as we reached the penthouse, I got out and walked to her side, opened the door, and grabbed her wrist. I didn't give her time to protest. I was done with quiet tolerance and passive distance. I pulled her behind me, through the marble-floored hallway, up the stairs.
"Alexander ?" she started, confused, her steps stumbling behind mine.
I didn't answer. Not until I dragged her into her room and slammed the door shut behind us.
Only then did I let her go.
She stood there, eyes wide maybe even a little afraid.
She needed to understand that silence didn't mean peace.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" I shouted, "Do you have any idea what kind of storm you've created with your petty, useless stubbornness?"
She flinched, but didn't speak.
"My name is being dragged through every gutter tabloid in the city. Meme pages are turning you into a joke. And do you know why?"
Still silence.
"Because you want to play some goddamn martyr!" I hissed. "You think walking around in those ragged clothes somehow makes you virtuous? You think it proves a point?"
Her mouth parted slightly, as if she wanted to explain but I wasn't finished.
"I gave you everything," I snapped. "Clothes. A car. A safe place to live. And you can't even do the bare minimum of wearing what's provided without turning it into some kind of insult."
I paced once, trying to calm the fire boiling in my chest but it only surged hotter.
"Your father is already choking me with his greed, threatening everything I've built and now you want to help him destroy me from the inside out?"
Her eyes were glassy, but I didn't let it stop me.
"When I give you something, Evelyn" I leaned closer holding her shoulder with a strong grip "then. Fucking. Take it."
I regretted it the moment I said those ugly words.
Her shoulders had drawn inward, eyes blinking fast as she was trying to conceal the fact that she was scared and could breakdown into tears any moment.
But I was too far gone to take it back.
She needed to learn that this wasn't a game. And
I needed to remind myself that marrying her was supposed to solve a problem not to create one.
"You're not going to college anymore."
I finally said it.
"If you want to go out, fine. But only if you wear the clothes I gave you. Nothing else. And forget college. I'll arrange home tutors. You'll study here, in this house. Under supervision. That's final."
Her silence stretched just long enough for me to think she might quietly submit again.
But she didn't.
Instead, she broke. Loud, furious, fire in her voice I'd never heard before.
"You don't get to control my life just because you married me!"
Her voice cracked in the middle of the sentence,
"If I'm such a burden to you, then maybe you shouldn't have married me at all!"
I stood there, stunned. How could I tell her?
How could I say that I didn't want this marriage? That she was never part of my plan? That she was the collateral damage of a deal with a man I should've destroyed instead of bowed to?
My jaw clenched. My fists were curled so tight my knuckles ached.
But the words didn't come.
Because even though the truth sat heavy on my tongue there was something about the look in her eyes made it impossible to say.
She stood there, waiting for me to say something.
But I didn't. I couldn't say anything
The guilt in my chest felt heavy for everything I said that couldn't undo.
Then she laughed. Softly. Bitterly.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Asimov," her voice dripping with mocking politeness. "Sorry for wearing clothes that don't scream designer labels. I didn't grow up wrapped in luxury Forgive me for I didn't know I was supposed to match the furniture in your penthouse."
I flinched inwardly, but she wasn't done.
"And I'm also sorry for using the car," she added, fire rising behind her words. "It was the first thing in my life that was ever truly mine. Something I could touch, use, without being told I didn't deserve it."
I stepped forward, trying to control my tone. "Evelyn , look , the car is yours. I don't care how you use it. I didn't mean what I said earlier, I said it in the heat of the moment."
She didn't even look at me.
Without a word, she picked up the car key from the dresser and before I could react she threw it straight at me.
It hit the side of my shoulder, not hard, but the message behind it stung worse than any blow.
Then she stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut with a bang.
"Evelyn!" I moved quickly, knocking hard on the bathroom door. "Open the door. Now."
No answer.
I knocked again, louder this time. "Evelyn, open the damn door!"
Still nothing , then I heard her voice from inside. She was crying.
"I hate all of you," she spat. "You. Him. Everyone. You're all the same. "
Her voice cracked on that last word, and my stomach twisted.
"Evelyn, I didn't mean to" I started, pressing my forehead against the door.
"Go away!" she screamed back. "I'm not your prisoner!"
I clenched my jaw.
She wasn't wrong.
And that's what made it worse.
Because deep down, I knew I wasn't angry at her clothes, or the memes, or even her father.
I was angry at myself. For dragging her into this war. For pretending she was a solution to a problem when all I'd done was hand her a new kind of cage.
And for the first time in years, I didn't know how to fix it.