Ashley's POV:
The reinforced room was a cold, suffocating blackness, the silence broken only by the incessant, rhythmic drumming of rain against the thick glass above. I lay wretchedly on the concrete floor, a physical extension of my despair. The pain on my neck, where his mark burned, was a constant, searing reminder of my place.
I cried all night. Not the loud, volatile tears of anger, but quiet, continuous sobs that tasted of salt and shame. What will he do with me? The question was cyclical, poisonous. It was immediately followed by the paralyzing thought of my parents. If I don't submit, he will hurt them. I questioned every choice that had led me from my sunlit room to this subterranean prison.
Then, through the fog of self-loathing, a new, far more agonizing realization broke through: I missed him. I missed the fierce possessiveness, the dark safety he provided, the absolute certainty of his presence. I loved him. The monster who caged me was the same man my heart ached for. I had fallen in love with Roman.
The thought of him not coming back—of him leaving me here, forgotten—terrified me more than the punishment he promised. I argued with myself for the whole time. It was only when the first faint, gray light of morning filtered through a tiny, distant vent that the arguing stopped. Ashley finally knew she loved him and couldn't live without him; he was her life now. She was still curled miserably on the floor when exhaustion finally dragged her into a fitful, shallow sleep.
A sudden, sharp shock of icy water tore me awake.
I gasped, sitting bolt upright, coughing and disoriented, my hair plastered to my face. Roman stood over me, the empty bucket hanging loosely in his hand.
For one second—a breath of time where the world paused—I thought I saw it: a flicker of pain, a hint of softness behind his eyes as he looked down at my miserable, soaked form. But the mask slammed back down instantly, harder than before.
He crouched down, bringing his face level with mine.
"I'm sorry," I choked out immediately, scrambling forward on my knees, desperate to bridge the distance. I tried to hug him, my wet arms reaching for his neck.
He stood up, cold and unyielding, leaving me kneeling in the puddle he'd created. "Get ready," he commanded, his voice flat.
I pulled myself up, shivering violently, the water from the bucket clinging to my clothes. I had to walk past him, dripping and humiliated, to the door.
This is what happens when I defy him. He doesn't just punish me; he dismantles my self-respect piece by piece.
The cold treatment continued upstairs. I moved through his silent, enormous bathroom, peeling off the sodden clothes. The reflection staring back at me was a stranger—hollow-eyed, bruised by lack of sleep, the red mark on my neck stark against my pale skin.
He owns me now, absolutely. I'm just a doll he can break and reassemble on a whim.
I quickly dressed in the clothes laid out for me, the anonymity of the simple black outfit a stark contrast to my usual bright wardrobe.
When I finally came downstairs, Roman was already seated at the dining table, a single place setting laid out, pristine and intimidating. A simple plate of food—eggs and toast—was waiting.
"Eat," he ordered, without looking up from his tablet.
My stomach was twisted with dread, but I knew better than to refuse. I sat down stiffly. Every bite was sawdust, but I forced it down, acutely aware of his oppressive silence.
Why is he giving me food if he's so angry? This isn't mercy; it's a display. He needs me functional for whatever comes next. I am a tool. A possession. But I still love him. I have to make him forgive me.
Breakfast was over in minutes, the silence heavier than any reprimand. Without another word, he rose.
"We're going out," he stated, picking up his car keys.
Later that morning, after the silent, cold treatment given by him to her, he took her to a hidden wing of the estate—his private shooting range. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder. He handed me a heavy, cold handgun.
"Shoot," he instructed calmly, pointing towards a humanoid silhouette target.
My hands shook. I couldn't hold the gun steady, and I couldn't bring myself to aim at a human shape. "Please, Roman," I whispered, tears immediately springing to my eyes. "I can't. I'm sorry. Please."
His calmness evaporated. His anger, previously contained, boiled to the surface. "SHOOT!" he roared.
I flinched, the sound echoing painfully. Slowly, my movements stiff and uncertain, I raised the gun. I tried to aim, but my hands were anchors of water.
"Pull the trigger," he said, his voice dangerously low now.
I looked back at him, still sobbing, seeking confirmation, a command to stop. His expression was dark, unforgiving, a deep well of disappointment and fury. That look—far worse than the shout—made me turn back to the target.
I pulled the trigger. The shot was deafening, the recoil jarring. I missed completely.
"Try again."
For the rest of the day, until night fell, I practiced. My shoulders ached, my arms screamed, and the side of my neck throbbed relentlessly.
"Please, Roman, I'm tired," I begged, leaning against the cold metal table.
"Continue."
It seemed like an eternity. But finally, through the pain and sheer exhaustion, something shifted. My focus narrowed. My aim steadied. Shot after shot began to hit the target, piercing the center mass with chilling accuracy.
"That's enough for today," he said, finally. "Let's go."
Back in the dining room, Roman sat down at the head of the table.
"Cook," he ordered.
I stared at him in disbelief, utterly exhausted. "Roman, I'm completely drained. Can't we just order something?"
"No," he said, his eyes drilling into mine. "You will cook for me."
My protest died in my throat. I cooked the meal. I placed his plate down, then, instinctively, sat down across from him, reaching for my own fork.
"Did I ask you to eat?"
My hand froze. I looked up, hurt and confusion warring with shame. "Roman, I cooked it for both of us. Why are you so angry? I'm so sorry. If this is about yesterday, I shouldn't have doubted you."
I can't handle this cold treatment anymore. No, I won't break. I have to make him go back to normal.
I rushed to his side and cupped his face in my hands. "I'm so sorry," I whispered, pressing my forehead against his. "I was scared. I was scared that you loved someone else. I am so sorry." I peppered his cheek with kisses.
I tried to hug him, then, changing my mind, I tucked my face into the side of his neck, simply relaxing against his strong, tense body. I felt the stiffness in his shoulders, the war raging inside him—his pride fighting his desire for me.
Then, unable to hold it back, I lifted my head and looked directly into his stormy eyes. "I love you, Roman."
In that single instant, the war was over. His guard shattered completely. He didn't just hug me; he hauled me onto his lap and crushed me against his chest with a desperate, possessive force, burying his face in my hair.
"You should have believed me, Ashley," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I would never do that. And I looked at that photo—it was AI generated. I told you."
We clung to each other, the fear and the anger momentarily dissolved in the profound comfort of reconciliation.
He finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, a faint, dark smile touching his lips. "But still," he murmured, his eyes glittering with a predatory amusement, "You are going to get your punishment."
Before I could reply, he stood up, hoisting me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and strode into our bedroom, the door closing with a definitive click.
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Author's Note (A Necessary Dose of Chaos):
Okay, chapter done! 🫠 Ashley finally admitted she loves the monster. We knew it was coming, but let's just appreciate Roman's incredible patience here. He literally soaked her in ice water 🚿, forced her to practice sharp-shooting for twelve hours 🔫, and made her cook dinner before acknowledging her existence. That's just standard Roman boyfriend behavior, right? 😂
The man is a villain, but those moments where his heart wins the internal war? 🔥 Swoon-worthy, even if it immediately leads to the phrase "You are going to get your punishment." Time for things to heat up in the master bedroom. Stay tuned, because the consequences for doubt are always delicious! 😈
-Vaanni 🖤