The Don's Obsession

The obligatory request

⚠️ *Content Warning*: Physical restraint, choking, emotional distress

I hid myself shakily in the corner of the room, trembling as I took in my own reflection. I was a mess—caked in mud, blood, and sweat. First bondage in my father’s house, now imprisonment in this wretched place. Nothing had changed except the walls.

The thought of my mother struck me without warning, and I broke into sobs.

She was good. She had never laid a hand on me. Remembering her made the ache sharper.

“The Don hates hearing cries,” Elena said softly, her face devoid of emotion.

“I hate this place!” I sobbed louder.

“You should thank your stars that you’re carrying his child,” Elena replied. “Otherwise, you would already be dead.”

“What is he going to do to me?” I asked, fear flooding my chest.

“I don’t know,” Elena shrieked.

I sobbed quietly until I heard his footsteps—always calm, always measured.

He entered.

No soldiers. Just him.

“You tried running with my child again, Vallorie.”

“He’s not your child!” I shouted back.

Elena gasped, as if I had committed a sacrilege.

He stepped forward and closed his hand tightly around my neck. I clawed at his arm, struggling to breathe, but he didn’t yield. His eyes burned with satisfaction as he watched me fight. I looked to Elena, and tears had filled hers.

“She’s carrying your baby,” Elena whispered.

Then, abruptly, he released me.

I collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, coughing violently as he walked out, my gasps echoing through the room.

The door hadn't even clicked shut before my lungs started burning.

Air scraped down my throat like glass. I couldn't stop coughing. Couldn't stop shaking.

Elena didn't move closer. She sat against the wall, chain clinking, eyes fixed on the floor.

"You're lucky," she whispered. "You should have never talked back to him."

"You don't get it, do you?" Elena said.

The door clicked again before I could answer.

I turned. Expected him.

It wasn't him.

A woman. Late thirties. Doctor's coat over a black dress. No fear in her eyes. She moved like people who worked for the Don always moved, fast, quiet, eyes on the floor unless told otherwise.

She set a medical bag on the floor.

Looked at the tablet in her hand.

"Nine weeks, one day," she said. "Heart rate elevated. Dehydrated. BP low."

She finally looked up. Her eyes were flat. Professional.

"Are you the Don's wife?"

I didn't answer.

She nodded like I had. "He wants the baby alive. You alive enough."

She pulled out a blood pressure cuff. "Sit. Now."

I didn't.

Her expression didn’t change. “If you don’t sit, he’ll make you. And he won’t be gentle about it.”

My stomach twisted. Not nausea. Fear.

He’d sent a doctor. He wasn’t going to kill me yet. Not while the baby was useful.

That was worse somehow.

I sat.

The cuff squeezed my arm. The doctor wrote something on the tablet without looking at me.

“You’ll eat,” she said. “He said if you refuse, he’ll tube feed you. He doesn’t like mess.”

Elena made a small sound. I didn’t look at her.

“What happens after?” I asked.

The doctor paused. For half a second.

“After, he decides.”

She finished, packed up, and left without saying goodbye. Like I was a chart. Not a person.

The door locked again.

The second it clicked, footsteps came from the hall. Slow. Measured. Immediate.

I knew those steps.

The lock turned again.

The door opened.

And Don stood there.

His eyes went straight to me.

"Prepare, Vallorie. We’re having dinner with my family."