#phm#ryland grace#rocky the eridian#project hail mary spoilers
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Thinking about how divorce Bruce Wayne would try to get his reader ex wife back…ughhhh
The bar was warmer than you expected…soft lights, low music, a slow hum of conversations that blurred together. You sat alone in a corner booth, fingers tracing the rim of your glass as you checked the time on your phone for the third time in ten minutes. Your date was late, surprisingly alike your ex husband, Bruce.
You sighed, leaning back in your seat, looking out the window. It was sweet, the snow was falling softly, setting in that beautiful Christmas atmosphere.
It was calm. Not some fancy five star restaurants on the top of the world. Not over the top date in Copenhagen Opera House. This was a normal date, with a normal man.
Just…normal?
A message pulled you out of your thoughts, a text from your date.
“Be there in a minute, parking my car now”
You smiled, texting him back a quick “okay” and fixing your sweater.
But when the door opened, and a familiar scent filled the room like a cold wind before you even looked up… you felt your stomach drop.
Because you already knew who it was.
And it wasn’t your date. If anything it was non other than Bruce Wayne. Your ex husband, the man you made a family with, raised 4 children with.
You quickly pulled your gaze down, not daring to look at him for too long. You knew he was still keeping tabs on you. It wouldn’t be Batman if he wasn’t constantly checking in on his wife.
Bruce stood at the doorway, scanning the place with his cold look, the look he only gave to his worse enemies. He needed his wife back, he doesn’t play about that. His coat was wet from all the snow falling on it, his hair a bit wet too. He straightened his posture, jaw tight as he walked in.
He spotted you in seconds. I mean how couldn’t he?You were his wife after all.
You could feel it, feel his gaze on you. Everything inside uou went still. But he didn’t look shocked. He looked…relieved, letting out a breath like he’s been holding it in for years.
Without thinking about it, he made his way towards you.
A shadow fell across your table, and a voice you once knew by heart and still do broke the peace you’ve built for yourself.
“Didn’t know you were out tonight.” Bruce said sternly, his hands in the pocked of his expensive coat. It was weird, he never spoke sternly with you. He was always gentle.
You closed your eyes. Obviously you didn’t expect him to apologies or anything like that, you just forgot how straightforward he is exactly.
You looked up at him, because pretending he wasn’t there isnt an option anymore.
“Bruce,” you said, sighing softly despite how fast you heart was beating. “What are you doing here?”.
He glanced at the empty seat across from you, the table set for two. He knew. How couldn’t he? He knew everything about you, his beloved wife.
“I could ask you the same thing” he said.
You lifted an eyebrow. “It’s a bar. People go to bars.” you argued with logic. He can’t go against that, right? Right??
His eyes flicked to you, something sharp and almost pained behind them.
“Do they? Do they really go to bars with no motives?” he asked. A bar date wasn’t a date for him. It was a mockery of what the two of you had.
You were about to respond — something smart, something distant, when your phone lit up on the table.
“I’m coming in. Sorry again for being late!” Mark texted. Just in the right time…
Bruce’s eyes dropped to the screen. Just a second. Barely a flicker. But it was enough. It’s all he needed to confirm his suspension. It’s your pathetic excuse of a man. The man you chose to play with.
His expression went cold, brows furrowed. His posture straightened. Something aching, something unguarded flashed across his face for the first time.
He looked back at you, voice low. “Hes the reason why you’re here” he said, didn’t even ask. He knows he’s right, hes a detective after all…
You reached for it, but he placed his hand on the table first not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. He looked down at you, not once ruining his perfectly straight posture. Everything on him had to be perfect.
You swallowed. “Bruce…please don’t…“
“No.” he said. There was no hesitation, no space for argument. Like he was right. Because he was.
“You’re meeting him” he said, quieter this time… but so much more angrier.
“Does he know?” Bruce asked. He’s not playing around.
You blinked, surprised. “Know what..?”
He held your gaze with those sharp blue eyes.
“Does he know you’re still my wife?” he said. He never signed the divorce papers, because you’re not going anywhere. It’s just some silly phase you’re going through because you two have been together for such a long time, you just wanted some thrill. It’s okay! You can play! As long as you come back home of course.
Your breath caught. “We’re separated, Bruce. I’m not your wife anymore..” you reminded him, avoiding his gaze.
He was quick to respond. “You’re still my wife.” he said as he took your phone, listing all the messages you got today. Messages from other men, on the phone he bought for you. Besides whatever you say is irrelevant here, he knows if you’re his wife or not.
“Bruce…” you tried to respond, tried to reason with him.
“And the mother of my children,” he added, voice rough. “Which means I have every right to know who you’re spending your time with”
You stared at him, now narrowing your eyes at him. “You don’t get to decide that anymore” you said, crossing your arms.
“You really think I’m going to stand here and let some pathetic man try to take my place?” he asked, voice almost too calm. You were misbehaving, again. Now he has to stop this little game youre trying to play.
“It’s not about taking your place” you responded. As if it couldn’t have gone worse, he keeps going.
“Of course it’s about that” he scoffed.
Before you could respond, the door opened. And you saw your date, Mark, walk in. Looking for you. So oblivious to the fact that your ex husband was ready to do anything to put a stop to this.
Bruce saw him too.
Something in him snapped.
Just a flicker in his eyes that deep, territorial fear that every man who’s lost too much and refuses to lose one more thing feels.
He now stood closer to you, blocking Mark’s view of you completely with his body. His every move was calculated. He’s going to stop this game.
“In a few seconds…” Bruce started quietly, as if he was whispering something to you. “he’s going to come over here and try to sit across from you”
You opened your mouth to argue, but Bruce leaned closer, voice going back to that tone he only used when you were being bratty.
“And I’m telling you right now… I’m not letting that happen. This game that you’re playing, this phase. It ends here, now”
Your eyes widen in shock. “What?? What phase? What are you talking about??” you said genuinely confused, what the fuck was he talking about?
His eyes burned into yours.
“I’m not losing my family,” he said, dead serious and dead set on getting you back home. “Not again. Not to your little game. Not to any man out there”
Mark started walking toward the table.
Bruce didn’t move. He didn’t step aside, he didn’t even blink.
He straightened up again, looking down at you with the same look he had when he was Batman.
Expect it’s different, this was about you. His beloved wife….
And the children you shared. The future you two will have, hes not letting go, not so soon. Not ever, actually.
—
A/n: okay so hopefully this fanfic makes sense…I really tried tho and I hope you guys like it!! Ugh I love possessive Bruce, hes just refusing to accept that his wife (you) is gone. Forgive him and his fragile heart 😔
control me control me control me control me control me control me control me control me control me control me control me control me control me c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ḿ̬̏ͤͅẹ̿͋̒̕ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜ c̸̛͕̯͂̐̓͗͊͛͝o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓️ṉ̵͓̬͈̞̥̭̥̇̓̔͋t̵̏͛̃̍́̈̚͜͝ŕ̶̛̰̱̈́̀́̑̿̾͛͂̈́͗̓̈́̒͘͝️o̶̯͎̱͐̇͋̅̃̈́͋̽̊̀̓͊̃́͋̓l̷̢̨̨̫̼͙̞͉̗͉̖̲̖̞̿̉ m̶̥͇͈̣̏͑̿͑̃̈͛̕͠ẹ̷͓̺̰̽̍͛̉̐̔͋̓̚͜
I'm yours, right?
Make me into your dumb little doll. I want a daddy who babies me hard core😣 Like yes I know I’m you’re sweet dumb doll, anything for you daddy.
"Never volunteer or travel or try anything new" is not a good lesson to teach your kids, by the way.
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I need to be praised or reprimanded by an older man… maybe both I just know I need it
❤︎ CAGED BY LOVE ❤︎
———— ★ CONTROL ★ ————
ᐅ BANG CHAN ᐊ
🔞 Mature content ahead 🔞
Controlling Husband Bang chan x Fem! Reader
warnings: toxic relaationships,psychological and emotional abuse,Intense control and surveillance,gaslighting,coercion,loss of autonomy,workplace intimidation/pressure,apearance shaming,isolation.Let me know if I missed anything.
synopsis: everyone thinks y/n is lucky to be loved by someone so charming, so attentive, so perfect. But behind closed doors, that love quietly turns into rules, corrections, and constant watchfulness that follows her from home to work. By the time she realizes the difference between being cared for and being controlled, she’s already trapped.
authors note: welcome to my first post! I hope you enjoy! Doing a straykids Red Flags series so stay tuned!!
2.0k words
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His charm was the most frightening thing about him.You loved him,of course you did.You’d been together since Freshman year, the kind of couple people pointed at in the hallways.By senior year,you were crowned prom king and queen,frozen forever in photos where everything looked perfect.
Everyone knew your relationship.Girls whispered about how lucky you were,how you’d won the lottery with someone so handsome, so charming, so respectful.Teachers trusted him.Parents adored him.He opened doors,smiled politely,and said all the right things.
And every time someone told you how lucky you were, you smiled back because how could something that looked that perfect possibly be wrong right?
But once you moved in together, everything began to shift. At first, it seemed harmless, even sweet.He'd cook dinner, handle the groceries, and remind you to rest after a long day.He said he just wanted to take care of you.Slowly, though, the gestures became rules.What time you woke up, what you ate, what you wore, even who you spoke to everything fell under his watchful,calculating eye.He called it love, concern, guidance, but it wasn’t.The line between care and control didn’t just blur, it disappeared. And somewhere along the way,the home that had once felt safe started to feel like a cage,one you didn’t even realize you were trapped in…
until it was too late.
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"Hey wake up,we're going to be late" your husband nudged you.
"huh,what time is it?" you said sitting up rubbing your eyes
"it’s 7:40 y/n,did you forget to set your alarm again? I've told you so many time to always set it before you fall asleep" he said irritated
"I swear I set it yesterday?" you said confused because you know you had made sure you double checked before fallling asleep.
"Well it says here you fell asleep at 9:30 and you usually fall asleep at 10? Maybe you fell asleep and forgot to set it"
"Hmm maybe" you responded blankly you didn't have time to argue you had exactly 20 miniutes to hurry and get ready before you had to head out.
Chan already had left to the kitchen to go ahead and start on your breakfast to save some time while you got ready.You went into your closet and picked out a black pencil skirt and a dress shirt and your flats,you thought the outfit gave off office vibes and you felt good about it.
Next up was your makeup and Chan had always told you to be natural and not wear too much because he didn't like for you to draw attention to yourself so you just curled your lashes and added a lip tint and a little blush.
you got your bag and your phone and started walking towards the kitchen seeing chan as you set your bag on the table.
"Okay I'm ready" you said smiling confidently
He turned around and looked at you up and down then scoffed "No you're not,you're not stepping out of the house wearing that."
You were taken aback by his statement.You didn't see anything wrong with what you were wearing "But there's nothing wrong with my outfit?" you said
"Go change" he said sternly "Wear those black dress pants and that white longseleve blouse I bought you,you're going to work not to a party" he said still cooking.
You blinked, unsure whether to argue. You’d spent five minutes picking something that felt professional, smart, and comfortable. But his tone left no room for negotiation.
“Fine,” you muttered, retreating to the bedroom. You slipped out of your skirt and blouse, trying not to show how frustrated you felt. Chan’s gaze followed you from the kitchen doorway as if he could see everything you did even when your back was turned. You pulled on the black dress pants and the white blouse he had bought, the fabric feeling stiff compared to your original outfit.
By the time you returned to the kitchen, Chan had already plated breakfast, a neat arrangement of eggs, toast, and fruit. He looked up as you walked in, eyes scanning you like a critic.
He handed you a napkin
"Wipe off your lipstick,it’s too bright,I don't want my wife to look like a hooker" he said as he set the plates down in your respected seats.
You froze for a moment, napkin halfway to your lap. Your stomach sank.
“I… I just put on a little lip tint,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s not… too much.”
Chan’s eyes narrowed,and he shook his head. “No.I said It’s too bright.You’re not going anywhere looking like that.Wipe it off.”His tone wasn’t just critical it was absolute.No room for discussion
You swallowed and obeyed,dabbing at your lips as he watched,arms crossed.The air felt heavy,like every movement you made was under a microscope.He set the plates carefully in front of you and himself, every action deliberate. Even the simple act of sitting down to eat became another test.
“Sit up straight,” he added before picking up his fork. “You don’t want to slouch in front of people. It looks sloppy.”
You bit your tongue, sitting as rigidly as possible. The toast tasted dry, the eggs bland,but you didn’t dare complain.He glanced at you occasionally, making small corrections,“Don’t pick at the toast with your nails like that… hold your fork properly… your elbows off the table.”
By the time you finished eating, your hands and posture were tense, your mind already counting the minutes until you could escape to the office.Even that didn’t feel safe,he was your boss too, and there, his control followed.
As you cleared your plate, Chan leaned back in his chair, eyes still scanning you. “Good,” he said finally. “Now, bags, coats, shoes.I don’t want us leaving even more late than we already are."
You slung your bag over your shoulder, trying not to think about how every step toward the door felt like walking a tightrope. Chan’s gaze followed you, unblinking.
“Wait,” he said, stopping you. “Phone.”
You frowned. “What about it?”
“Out of your pocket. Let me see it,” he said sharply. “Notifications cleared? Don’t want you distracted on the way to work.”
You hesitated, feeling your patience fray. “Chan… I—”
“No arguments,” he interrupted. His tone wasn’t just stern anymore it carried a weight that made your chest tighten.You handed over your phone,and he thumbed through it quickly, as if verifying your every unread message, every lingering alert. “Good. Now. Let’s go.”
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The car ride began the moment he shut the door.
No delay. No easing into it.
“Sit properly,” Chan said, eyes forward as he pulled onto the road.
You straightened immediately, back stiff against the seat, hands folded in your lap the way he liked. Your heart was already pounding, and he hadn’t even looked at you yet.
“Good,” he said. “Now listen carefully.”
His words weren't loud. They didn’t need to be.
“You’ve been careless lately,” he continued. “This morning proved that. Late. Disorganized. Making choices without thinking them through.” He paused. “That’s not acceptable,you know that right?.”
“Yes,I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“I didn’t ask for an apology,” he replied. “I asked for attention. Apologies don’t fix patterns.”
You nodded quickly,your throat becoming tight.
“Tell me,” he said, “what time we were supposed to leave.”
“Eight,” you answered.
“And what time did we actually leave?”
“…Eight twenty.”
He nodded once. “So you understand the problem.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I made us late.”
“Wrong,” he said calmly. “You made me late.”
Your breath hitched. “I made you late,” you repeated.
“That’s better,” he said. “Accuracy matters.”
The car turned onto a main road. His posture never changed straight, controlled, deliberate.
“When I corrected your outfit,” he went on, “did you hesitate?”
You swallowed. “…Yes.”
“Why.”
“I thought mine was okay.”
“That,” he said evenly, “is the issue. You thinking something is okay doesn’t make it correct.”
Your fingers trembled, and you pressed them harder together to hide it.
“You don’t need to decide what’s appropriate,” he continued. “That’s my responsibility. When you push against that, even quietly, it creates problems.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” you said softly.
“Intent is irrelevant,” he replied. “Outcome is what matters.”
Silence filled the car again, thick and heavy.
“Look at me,” he said.
You turned your head slowly, afraid of moving too fast, too slow afraid of doing it wrong.
“You don’t look focused,” he observed. “You look scared.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
“That’s not a bad thing,” he added. “Fear means you understand the mistakes you make.”
You nodded, eyes dropping back to your lap.
“From now on,” he said, “when I correct you, you respond immediately. No hesitation. No questioning. That’s how we avoid situations like this morning.”
“Yes,” you whispered.
“Yes what,” he corrected.
“Yes,Chan.”
He glanced at you briefly. “Good.”
The office building came into view, looming closer with every second.
“One last thing,” he said. “When we get out of this car, you are composed. Calm. Professional. Whatever you’re feeling stays here.” He tapped the steering wheel once. “Do you understand?”
Your chest felt tight, but you nodded. “Yes,Chan.”
He pulled into the parking spot and turned off the engine.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then he spoke again, voice firm, final.
“Don’t make me have to be stricter than this.”
Your stomach dropped.
You nodded again
then you both exited his car
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You entered the building alongside Chan to which you were both greeted by the receptionist.
"Good Morning Mr & Mrs Bahng" she said brightly flashing her bright smile.
You inhaled, ready to respond,but a quick, sharp pinch at your side stole the words right out of your mouth. Chan didn’t even look at you at first. Then his eyes flicked over, calm, warning.
“Morning,” he said smoothly, smiling as if nothing were wrong.
You walked beside him in silence,chest tight,fingers curled around your bag strap.Every step felt rehearsed.Every movement felt watched.
The elevator ride was quiet. Too quiet.Chan stood close, just enough that you could feel his presence without touching.When the doors opened onto the office floor, his hand returned briefly to your back, guiding you forward one last time.
“Remember,” he murmured, voice low, pleasant.“I’ll be watching.”
Then he let go.
He peeled away toward his office,leaving you standing there with the sudden, hollow realization that being alone didn’t mean being free.
At your desk,you sat carefully,adjusting your chair,setting your bag down just so.You barely had time to exhale before your phone vibrated.
"Sit up."
Your spine straightened instantly.
You opened your laptop. Another vibration.
"Slower typing. It looks sloppy."
Your fingers hesitated, then resumed, more carefully this time.
A coworker passed by and smiled. “Morning, y/n.”
You smiled back, small and polite. Your phone buzzed again almost immediately.
"Don’t smile like that. It invites conversation."
The smile faded.
When someone stopped by your desk a few minutes later, leaning on the partition,your heart jumped.
“Hey, are you free for a quick question?”
Your phone lit up before you could answer.
"No. Tell them you’re busy."
“I—uh—sorry,” you said quickly. “I’m in the middle of something.”
They looked confused but nodded and walked away.
Your chest felt tight. You hadn’t even touched your phone,yet it felt heavier than anything else on your desk.
Minutes passed.Then another vibration.
"Feet flat on the floor." You adjusted.
"You’re slouching again." You straightened.
"Eyes on the screen." You complied.
Even when Chan wasn’t visible, his presence wrapped around you tighter than when he was. Every movement became a question
Will this be corrected?
Will this be noticed?
By now, you were counting down the minutes, desperate for five o’clock to arrive. All you wanted was to escape,to step through the front door and at least pretend you could breathe in your own home, even if the comfort there had long since faded.
