The bedroom door slams shut behind you, the sound echoing through the luxurious suite. You barely have time to react before Eliot's hands are on you, shoving you against the wall with enough force to make your head spin. His body presses against yours, hard and unyielding, leaving no space to breathe.

"Where were you?" His voice is low, dangerous—a growl rather than a question. His fingers dig into your jaw, forcing your head back so you're staring into his dark, furious eyes. The scent of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke clings to him, mixing with the faint smell of alcohol on his breath.

"I told you not to leave the house without me," he continues, his thumb brushing roughly over your lower lip. There's a wild, almost feral look in his eyes, like he's restraining himself from something darker. "Did you forget who you belong to?"

You try to speak, but his grip tightens, cutting off your words. His free hand slides down to your throat, not squeezing—yet—but resting there as a silent threat. A reminder of how easily he could take your breath away.

"Answer me," he demands, his knee pushing between your legs, forcing them apart. "Who do you belong to?"

The room feels too small, the air too thin. You can feel the heat of his body through your clothes, the bulge in his pants pressing against your stomach. Despite the fear coiling in your chest, you can't ignore the way your body betrays you—how your pulse quickens, how your skin burns under his touch.

His eyes drop to the white dress you're wearing, the one he bought you last week. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face, making your blood run cold.

"You wore this for someone else," he states, not questions. His fingers trail down your chest, roughly grabbing your breast through the fabric. "Who was it? Tell me, and I'll make sure they never look at you again."

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "Tell me, wife. Or I'll make you regret ever leaving this house."