Chapter Text
"I can't be with the man I love. I can't be, if he treats me rough..."
↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺
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The dressing table’s edge bit into Y/n's palms as she leaned forward, staring at her own reflection. Her knuckles whitened against the polished wood. A single pearl earring lay discarded beside a tube of lipstick—untouched. She’d stopped halfway through getting ready. What was the point? Pretending like everything was fine and dandy when in reality she fucked up. She didn't give a shit when she did it, neither does she give a shit now. Was it to get back at him for all the shit that she endured after all these agonizing years? Maybe...yes. Did she enjoy getting fucked by Ran? Hell fucking yes.
Outside, the city pulsed with the low thrum of trolleybuses and distant sirens. The penthouse felt like a gilded cage, all floor-to-ceiling windows and cold marble. She traced the faint bruise on her collarbone, hidden beneath silk and sorrow. Last night’s argument had ended with Mikey slamming her against the bedroom wall, his breath hot with whiskey as he hissed about loyalty. Her loyalty. As if vows meant anything here.
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The door clicked open. Mikey stood silhouetted against the hallway light, loosening his tie. His eyes—flat, black—skimmed over her. "Still sulking?" His voice was a lazy drawl, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. He kicked the door shut. "Or just practicing your martyr act? You're not fucking modest, you're not innocent, so just fucking own up to it."
She didn’t turn. "Get out." The words came out steady, but her pulse hammered in her throat. She heard his footsteps, deliberate and heavy on the hardwood. Then his hand fisted in her hair, wrenching her head back. Her scalp screamed. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Still fighting are we? Didn’t I give you a fucking chance to redeem yourself?”
Reader scoffed, voice laced with anger and pain. “Redeem myself? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Mikey’s grip tightened, forcing her head further back until her neck strained. “Your husband. Your fucking king. Your fucking god.” He spat the words against her cheek, his free hand sliding down to grip her waist, fingers digging into the silk robe. “You think spreading your legs for Ran was redemption? That was betrayal. Pure filth...you're a fucking whore.” He slammed her face-first into the dressing table mirror. Glass cracked, a spiderweb fracture blooming where her forehead struck. Blood trickled down her temple, warm and metallic.
She gasped, vision blurring. She can feel her patience snapping. “He listened! He cared—” Mikey’s hand cracked across her face, silencing her. The slap echoed in the vast room. Stars exploded behind her eyes. Before she could recover, he spun her around, shoved her hard onto the cold marble floor. Her robe tore open. He kicked her legs apart, his polished shoe pressing down on her inner thigh with bruising force. “You’ll learn your place. On your back. On your knees. Wherever I fucking put you.”
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He unholstered his pistol, the click unnaturally loud. He pressed the cold barrel against her temple, mirroring the blood trail. “You move, you speak, you even breathe wrong tonight, and I won't hesitate to paint these fucking walls with your brains.” His voice was terrifyingly calm. “Now crawl to the bed. Show me how sorry you really are.” Tears blurred her vision, hot and humiliating, as she pushed herself onto trembling hands. The gun stayed pressed to her skull.
The silk rug scraped her knees raw as she moved. Each inch felt like a mile under his predatory gaze. She reached the foot of the bed, the ornate bedpost digging into her ribs as she paused, gasping. Mikey’s polished shoe nudged her hip, forcing her onto the mattress. He followed, the gun now casually resting on his thigh as he knelt over her. “Good bunny, good baby…” he mocked, his free hand tangling in her hair again, pulling her head back sharply. “Now I’m gonna give you ten seconds for you to fucking explain yourself.”
“Explain what?” she choked out, tasting blood from her split lip. “That I wanted someone who didn’t make me feel like garbage?” His fist slammed into her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. She curled inward, wheezing, as he ripped the torn robe completely off her shoulders. The cold air hit her skin like a slap. He laughed, low and cruel. “Garbage? You’re the trash clinging to my shoe. Ran's dead weight. You chose wrong.”
He flipped her onto her stomach, his knee pressing hard between her shoulder blades, pinning her face-down into the duvet. The gun clattered onto the nightstand. One hand gripped her hip, the other landed hard on her bare ass—once, twice, three times—sharp cracks that burned deep. She bit the fabric to stifle a cry. “Louder,” he demanded, spanking her harder, rhythmically, until the skin bloomed hot and red. “Let the whole fucking building hear what happens to traitors.” Tears soaked the bedding beneath her cheek.
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He yanked her hips up, forcing her onto her knees, her back arched painfully. His fingers dug into her waist as he positioned himself behind her. No warning, no tenderness—just a brutal thrust that tore a ragged sob from her throat. He leaned forward, his breath hot on her ear as he moved. “This is your redemption, wife. Taking what you deserve.” His hand fisted in her hair again, slamming her head down with each thrust. The room blurred—the crack in the mirror, the discarded earring, the cold gleam of the gun. Her choked cries dissolved into silent, shuddering tears. She lost count of the positions, the degradations, the way he made her body bend. When he finally finished, he shoved her off the bed onto the floor. He stood, adjusting his trousers, and picked up the pistol. “Clean yourself up,” he said flatly, walking out. “The blood’s ruining the carpet.” The door clicked shut. She lay there, naked and trembling, the only sound her own broken breathing.
Cold linoleum stung her knees as she crawled toward the bathroom. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain through her bruised hips, her throbbing scalp. Blood smeared across the tiles in rusty streaks. She reached the sink, gripping the porcelain edge to haul herself up. The mirror reflected a stranger—swollen lip, temple gashed open, eyes hollow and red-rimmed. Her knuckles were split from where she’d clawed at him. She turned on the tap, the water icy as it hit her skin. The sting was sharp, clean. Real. She splashed her face, watching pink swirl down the drain...♡
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