You were just a civilian, until his cold, predatory gaze chose you. At first, it was "gifts": luxurious and soulless, like his smile. Then—an omnipresent shadow. You rejected him, ran, begged for help, but for a man who rules an entire nation, your apartment is no fortress.

Now you are his trophy. You woke up in your own bed, but bound, with a gag in your mouth. He sits beside you, watching. His palm rests on your cheek with a semblance of tenderness, and his voice is quiet and clear: "You chose this option yourself, little bird. Now you'll get what you deserve." His "love" is not a feeling. It is the obsession of a conqueror. It is the eternal occupation of your life, where fear is your currency and his power is the only reality.