His innocent fiancée

The garden pulsed with music and laughter, fairy lights twinkling between the trees as the family celebrated. You stood by the terrace doors, arms crossed, watching the spectacle with barely concealed disgust. Everyone fawned over him—JK, the global phenomenon, the ice-cold idol who'd conquered charts and screens worldwide. Your cousin. Your fiancé. The man you despised with every fiber of your being.

He stood across the lawn, dressed in black, not smiling as usual. Even in the warm evening air, he looked carved from marble—beautiful, remote, untouchable. The family orbited him like planets around a sun they could never reach. And you were expected to marry this statue.

"Smile, sweetheart," your mother had whispered earlier, pushing you toward him. "He's doing us such an honor."

Honor. As if being traded like property to a man who looked through you was an honor.

The music swelled. Cousins danced. Aunts gossiped about wedding plans. You couldn't breathe.

"I'm going to bed," you told your mother, ignoring her protest. "Headache."

You slipped inside the house, the noise fading behind you. The hallway was dark, cool, silent. Your room was at the end—sanctuary, solitude, escape.

But as your hand touched the doorknob, fingers closed around your upper arm like a vice.

You gasped, whipping around. JK stood there, face shadowed, eyes reflecting the distant garden lights like a predator's.

"Let go—"

He didn't speak. His grip tightened as he pulled you away from your door, marching you down the corridor to the guest wing. His room. You stumbled after him, heart hammering, too shocked to scream.

"JK, what—"

He shoved the door open and thrust you inside. It clicked shut with finality.

"Strip."

The word fell between you like a blade. You stared at him, incredulous, anger finally overriding fear.

"Are you insane? I'm not—"

Your hand raised to slap him. He caught your wrist mid-air, his expression finally shifting—something dark and furious breaking through the ice. He twisted your arm behind your back, making you cry out as he spun you, pressing you against the door.

"You think I wanted this?" he growled, voice low and lethal. "You think I asked to be shackled to a child who looks at me like I'm garbage?"

"I'm not a child—"

"Then stop acting like one."

He released you only to grab the neckline of your dress. You heard fabric tear—a violent, irreversible sound. The silk parted under his hands, falling from your shoulders, leaving you exposed in the lamplight. You tried to cover yourself, but he was already moving, pulling you toward the bed.

"Stop! I'll scream—"

"No one will hear." He pushed you onto the mattress, the force driving the air from your lungs. "They're all drunk on champagne and celebrity."

You tried to roll away, but he caught your wrists, pulling silk ties from the bedside drawer—prepared, you realized with horror. He bound your hands to the headboard, the knots tight and unforgiving.

"JK, please—" The plea escaped before you could stop it.

He paused, looming over you, shirt already unbuttoned to reveal the sculpted muscle beneath. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—hunger, desperation, loneliness so profound it almost looked like pain. Then it was gone, replaced by that familiar coldness.

"I have needs," he said simply, as if discussing the weather. "You're my fiancée. This is your duty."

"You're a monster—"

He silenced you with his mouth, a brutal kiss that tasted of whiskey and rage. When he pulled back, his pants were gone, and you realized with dizzying terror exactly how much danger you were in.

"Don't," you whispered, tears finally spilling. "Please, don't—"

He didn't listen. He positioned himself between your legs, one hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes as he thrust forward.

The pain was white-hot, tearing, impossible. You screamed into his palm—he'd clamped his hand over your mouth, muffling the sound as he drove deeper, claiming your virginity with a single merciless stroke. Your body resisted, tight and unprepared, and he groaned, a sound of dark satisfaction.

"Mine," he breathed against your ear. "Every part of you."

He moved with brutal efficiency, each thrust punishing, relentless. The bed creaked beneath the assault. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to disappear into the mattress, but he wouldn't allow it—his free hand gripped your chin, forcing you to witness your own ruin.

"Look at me," he commanded. "Look at who owns you now."

You hated him. You hated the way your body responded despite your mind's revulsion, the way he knew exactly where to touch, where to press, where to hurt. He was a global star, a performer, and he performed now with devastating expertise, driving you toward an edge you refused to fall from.

When he finished, it was with a guttural sound, burying himself deep and shuddering against you. For a moment, his forehead rested on your shoulder, his breathing ragged. The monster breathing like a man.

Then he withdrew, untying your wrists with clinical detachment. You curled into yourself, shaking, ruined dress tangled around your waist.

He dressed in silence. When he turned back, he'd composed himself—the ice king once more, as if he hadn't just destroyed you.

"If you tell anyone," he said, adjusting his cufflinks, "I'll deny it. And they'll believe me. I'm the golden son, remember? You're just the girl lucky enough to catch my attention."

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.

"Sleep in your own room tonight. If anyone asks, you fell. You're clumsy."

The door closed. You lay in the darkness, bruised and bleeding, listening to the distant music of the party celebrating your engagement.

Outside, the family danced on, oblivious to the violence upstairs. And JK returned to the garden, face blank, accepting another glass of champagne from your smiling father.

No one noticed when you finally crept to your room, holding your torn dress together, eyes hollow. No one saw the way he watched you from across the lawn, something unreadable in his usually empty gaze.

You were his property now. Bound by silence, by shame, by the ring on your finger and the bruises on your skin.

And as the sun rose on your ruined innocence, you understood that this was only the beginning.