Chapter 1

The rain was doing that thing again, the kind of miserable, persistent drizzle that seeps into the window frames and makes the whole world feel damp and grey. It was the perfect backdrop for the blinking cursor on my screen, a tiny, rhythmic heartbeat mocking my total lack of inspiration. Another deadline was looming, another invoice was late, and another month’s rent was casting a long shadow over our bank account.

I loved this apartment. I loved the way the morning light hit the worn wooden floors, the way the crooked bookshelf held the story of our lives together, the way it always smelled faintly of Chloe’s vanilla-scented candles. But lately, I’d started to see the cracks. Not just the hairline fracture in the plaster above the doorway, but the bigger ones. The drip from the kitchen faucet was a constant, maddening metronome counting down the dollars we didn’t have for a plumber. The peeling paint in the corner was a quiet testament to a security deposit we’d probably never see again. This home, our sanctuary, was starting to feel like a cage I’d built around us, and I was losing the fight to keep it from closing in.

“Hey.”

Her voice cut through my spiral of anxiety like a warm knife. I turned in my chair and there she was, a splash of vibrant color in our muted little world. Chloe stood in the doorway of my office, her face flushed from the cold, her honey-blonde hair escaping in wisps from the messy bun atop her head. She was still in her yoga gear, a thin, long-sleeved top that hugged her torso and black leggings that showcased the lean, powerful lines of her legs and the perfect, heart-stopping curve of her ass. She was grace and light and everything good, and seeing her made the knot in my stomach tighten with a familiar, aching guilt.

Chloe, at 28, possesses a beauty that is both stunning and completely natural. As a yoga instructor, her body is a testament to her discipline and passion. She is lithe and toned, moving with a supple, dancer’s poise. She isn’t just “in shape”; she’s a study in lean muscle and graceful flexibility. Her legs are long and sculpted, leading up to a high, round, and perfectly shaped ass that even her loosest yoga pants can’t conceal. She has a flat, taut stomach and full, natural breasts that are perfectly proportioned to her slender frame.

Her skin seems to glow with health, and her honey-blonde hair is most often pulled back into a messy but elegant bun, with stray strands framing her face. Her eyes are a bright, expressive green, capable of conveying immense warmth and empathy. Her smile is infectious, and her full, soft lips are her most inviting feature. She radiates a vibrant, positive energy that feels like sunshine.

“Long day?” she asked, her voice soft. She glided over to me, her movements fluid and silent, and her cool hands began to work the tension from my shoulders. Her touch was magic. It always was.

“The usual,” I mumbled, leaning my head back to look up at her. Her green eyes were full of a genuine concern that I felt I didn’t deserve. “Client’s ghosting me on last month’s payment. This new piece feels like pulling teeth.”

“You’ll figure it out, Mark. You always do,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. Her support was unwavering, a fact that only made me feel worse. She deserved a husband who could provide more than just unwavering anxiety.

She straightened up, her hands still resting on my shoulders. “Guess who I saw snooping around the third-floor landing when I came in?”

I didn’t have to guess. A sour taste filled my mouth. “Henderson.”

“The one and only,” she said, her tone light but unable to hide the note of distaste. “He gave me that creepy little smile of his. Asked if our ‘pipes were still working right.’ I think he was just trying to get a look inside as I unlocked the door.”

My hands clenched into fists under the desk. Mr. Henderson. Our new landlord, a man who had inherited the building a few months ago and seemed to view its tenants as his personal fiefdom. The thought of him made my skin crawl. He was a man in his early sixties, with a soft, protruding gut that his stained polo shirts did nothing to conceal, and greasy, thinning hair he combed over his scalp with a pathetic lack of success. He moved with a permanent slouch and his eyes—small, dark, and piggy—had a way of lingering on Chloe that made me want to put my fist through a wall. He was a violation, a grimy, wheezing presence that had infiltrated our home.

“He’s just a miserable old troll, Chloe. Don’t worry about him.”

“I’m not worried,” she said, giving my shoulder a final, reassuring squeeze before heading toward the kitchen. “I just wish he’d learn to respect people’s privacy.”

I watched her walk away, my eyes tracing the incredible shape of her ass in those leggings. She was a goddess. The purest, most beautiful thing in my life. And the thought of Henderson’s leering, worthless eyes following that same view made my stomach twist into a knot of pure, unadulterated hatred. It was a dark, ugly feeling, and it was becoming more and more familiar with every passing day.

The rain finally let up later that afternoon, but the gloom inside the apartment remained. I was still glued to my chair, locked in a cold war with the blinking cursor, when Chloe announced her new project.

“I’m tackling the storage closet,” she declared, her voice echoing slightly from the hallway. It was her go-to move when the mood in the apartment turned sour—an energetic burst of organization, as if she could physically sweep the anxiety out of our home. “If we’re going to be cooped up, we might as well make some space!”

I heard the scraping of boxes, the soft thud of things being piled up. I should have been helping, but my brain felt like it was wading through mud. I just kept staring at the screen, lost in a fog of deadlines and self-pity. The sounds from the closet were a distant, muffled soundtrack to my failure.

I don’t know how much time passed. An hour, maybe more. The silence that eventually fell was more noticeable than the noise had been. It was a heavy, unnerving quiet. I finally pushed back from my desk, my joints cracking in protest.

“Chloe?” I called out, walking into the living room. “You win? Closet surrender?”

No answer. I walked down the short hallway. The closet door was wide open, boxes and old duffel bags stacked neatly outside. And there, sitting on the floor amidst the organized chaos, was Chloe. She was perfectly still, her back to me.

“Hey, you okay?” I asked, my voice softening.

She didn’t turn. It was only when I got closer that I saw it. An old, leather-bound journal was lying open on the floor in front of her, its pages stark white against the dark wood.

My blood ran cold.

It wasn’t just any journal. It was my dream journal, a relic from a college psychology class I’d barely passed. A place where, for years, I had cataloged the strange, disjointed narratives my subconscious coughed up at night. I hadn’t thought about it, let alone looked at it, in ages. It must have been buried in the back of that closet, a fossil from a past life.

I knew, with a certainty that felt like a punch to the gut, what she must have found. The early pages were harmless—anxious ramblings about exams, nonsensical flying dreams. But I also knew what came later. As life got harder, as the pressures of money and career began to mount, the dreams had turned darker. They became twisted, Freudian nightmares starring a recurring figure: a lecherous, powerful old man, a “troll,” who held some unseen power over me.

And I knew how those dreams always ended.

I didn’t have to see the page she was on. I could feel the words radiating off it like heat. I could picture her face as she read them, her beautiful green eyes widening in confusion, then horror. I could imagine her hands, the same hands that soothed my shoulders just hours ago, trembling as they held the evidence of the ugly, shameful corner of my mind.

The fantasy was always the same. The troll would back me into a corner, demanding a debt I couldn’t pay. And just as my dream-self was about to be crushed, my subconscious would offer up its most twisted, humiliating solution. It would conjure Chloe—or a version of her, a silent, beautiful specter—and I would be forced to stand by and watch as she was made to ... submit. As she was used to pay my debt. The dream would always end there, leaving me to wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, my body racked with a sickening cocktail of shame and a raw, undeniable arousal.

It was my deepest, most private shame. A fantasy so specific and vile I could barely admit it to myself, let alone the woman at its center. And now, she had read it. She had seen it. The silence in the hallway was deafening, broken only by the sound of my own frantic heartbeat. She knew.

I walked into the living room and it felt like the air had been sucked out of it. Chloe was on the couch, sitting ramrod straight, her hands clasped in her lap. The journal was on the coffee table between us, closed, but it might as well have been a live grenade. The vibrant, sunny woman who had walked into my office hours ago was gone. In her place was a stranger, her face pale, her green eyes wide and holding a look I’d never seen before—a mixture of deep hurt and profound confusion.

My throat was tight. I felt like a defendant walking into a courtroom where the verdict had already been decided. I sat down in the armchair opposite her, the table and the journal a no-man’s-land between us.

“Chloe...” I started, but my voice cracked. I didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ felt pathetic. ‘It’s not what you think’ was a bald-faced lie.

She finally looked at me, her eyes searching mine for an answer to a question she didn’t know how to ask. When she spoke, her voice was a fragile whisper, so quiet I had to lean forward to hear it.

“Mark ... what is this?” she asked, her gaze flicking down to the journal. “The things you wrote ... the troll ... and the woman ... who is that person?”

The innocence of the question was what broke me. She wasn’t angry. She was just lost. She couldn’t reconcile the man she loved, the man who treated her like she was made of glass, with the man who had penned those ugly, violent fantasies. She saw herself in those pages, not as a partner, but as a bargaining chip. A thing to be used.

I couldn’t look at her. I stared at my hands, at the floor, anywhere but at the pain I had put in her eyes.

“It’s ... it’s just stupid stuff, Chloe. From a long time ago. Stress dreams.” My voice was hoarse, shameful.

“It doesn’t feel like a dream, Mark. It feels ... real. The way you described it. The way you described... her.” She flinched, as if the word itself was painful. “Is that how you see me? As something to ... to trade?”

“No!” The word burst out of me, louder than I intended. “God, no. Chloe, never. You have to believe me.” I finally forced myself to meet her gaze. “It’s the opposite. It’s because you’re ... you. Because you’re so good, and pure, and the best thing in my life. That’s why the fantasy is so ... fucked up.”

I took a ragged breath, the confession spilling out of me now, a torrent of shame I’d held back for years.

“It’s about feeling powerless,” I explained, the words clumsy and inadequate. “It’s about guys like Henderson. Guys who have all the control, who can just walk into our lives and make us feel small. He disrespects me, he leers at you, and there’s nothing I can do about it. So my stupid, broken brain comes up with this ... this twisted scenario where I lose everything. Where I’m so weak I have to watch him ... take the most important thing in the world from me.”

My face was hot. I was sure it was beet-red. I felt stripped bare, my ugliest, most pathetic insecurities laid out on the table next to that goddamn journal. I was terrified. This was it. This was the moment she would see me for the broken, perverted person I was and walk away. I wouldn’t have blamed her.