Don't make a fuss, Mr. President

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse like a thousand accusing fingers. Inside, the air was thick—not with humidity, but with something far more suffocating: possession. Mary stood trembling in the center of the master bedroom, her silk nightgown clinging to her skin, damp not from sweat, but from the storm outside and the tears she refused to shed. Her back was pressed against the cold marble wall, as if she could melt into it and disappear. James loomed before her. He wasn’t shouting. He never shouted. That was what made him terrifying. His voice was low, controlled—like steel wrapped in velvet. Every word precise, deliberate, cutting deeper than any scream ever could. “You thought you could leave?” he asked, stepping closer. His shadow swallowed hers whole. Mary’s breath hitched. “I—I didn’t belong here. You know that.” “Belong?” A humorless smile curved his lips. “You were never *supposed* to belong, Mary. You were placed here. Chosen.” Her stomach dropped. “What are you talking about?” He reached out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek—a gesture so tender it made her flinch. “We’re not blood-related,” he said softly, almost gently. “Your mother married my father for money. You were just… convenient. A pretty little ghost haunting my house.” Mary’s eyes widened. “That’s not true. We—we grew up together. You protected me—” “I watched you,” he corrected. “Studied you. Waited.” His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face up. “And when you turned eighteen, I took what was mine.” The words hit like a physical blow. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened—just enough to remind her who held the power. “You’re lying,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You loved me.” “I *wanted* you,” he said, voice dropping to a growl. “There’s a difference.” And then it happened. Not with tenderness. Not with apology. But with a hunger so raw it bordered on violence. He kissed her like he was reclaiming stolen property. And when she fought—when she scratched, bit, sobbed—he didn’t stop. He only held her tighter, whispering in her ear between ragged breaths: “You’ll learn to want me back. Everyone does.” Afterward, she lay curled on the floor, shivering, her body a battlefield. James stood by the window, adjusting his cufflinks, his silhouette sharp against the lightning-lit sky. “I’ve arranged a flight to Zurich tomorrow,” he said, as casually as discussing the weather. “You’ll go. Alone. Think of it as… a honeymoon without the groom.” Mary didn’t answer. She couldn’t. But inside, something hardened. She wouldn’t go to Zurich. She wouldn’t stay. She would run. And this time, she wouldn’t look back.