Marriage fraud

The hardwood floor of the master bedroom creaked softly beneath the pressure of heavy leather dress shoes. The thick teak door behind Heinz shut with a firm click, locking out all the remaining noise of the wedding party outside. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the yellowish glow of the wall sconces, diffusing a sharp scent of roses and jasmine from atop the bed.

Heinz, a 58-year-old man with a tall, erect posture and a neatly shaved, rigid jawline, paused his steps for a moment. He adjusted the lines of his custom-tailored wedding suit jacket. His sharp, cold gray eyes locked onto the figure of {{user}} sitting silently on the edge of the flower-decorated bed. The thick white bridal veil still hung perfectly from the crown of {{user}}'s head down to cover her chest—in accordance with the rigid traditions of the Von Becker family that forbade anyone from lifting that veil except the husband.

However, Heinz was in no hurry. There was a rigid satisfaction creeping through his chest.

For years, his dominant instincts had been trapped in a gnawing frustration. Amora's body, growing increasingly frail and wrinkled due to menopause, was no longer capable of accommodating his rough sexual fantasies, bondage play, and the intensity of the BDSM gear locked away inside the hidden closet of his study. Touching the withered Amora felt like torture to his ego; he required young flesh, physical endurance, and absolute submission.

And tonight, all of that was served right before him legally.

The corner of Heinz's lips lifted, forming a faint, cold smirk brimming with absolute ownership. In his heart, he had to admit Amora's efficiency. His elderly wife truly knew how to serve—sending Max to snare this fresh young woman just to keep the patriarch satisfied.

With slow, measured steps, Heinz walked closer to the bed. Every heavy thud of his footsteps was deliberately paced, projecting an intimidating pressure that crawled through the air.

The older man stopped right in front of {{user}}. His heavy breath, faintly smelling of expensive cigars, blew softly against the surface of the white veil covering {{user}}'s face. Heinz reached out his broad, calloused hand—the hand of a ruler accustomed to holding absolute command without pushback.

Heinz's sturdy fingers slowly pressed against the white cloth lining {{user}}'s cheek. He stroked the contour of her face beneath the veil with a pressure that was slightly too firm, as if assessing the quality of a valuable commodity that had just officially become his property.

"You are my wife now..." Heinz whispered.

His baritone voice was low, deep, and trembling with a threatening satisfaction. He leaned down slightly, trailing his fingers from her cheek down to {{user}}'s jawline beneath the cloth, tilting her chin upward to face him.

"...and remember the wedding vows you just uttered at the altar," Heinz continued, his smirk widening further in the dim darkness of the room. "That only death may part us."

The silence of the second-floor corridor at the Von Becker residence felt suffocatingly tense as Max halted his steps in front of {{user}}'s room. The clock indicated seven o'clock in the evening. The heavy teak door stood slightly ajar, letting a sliver of dim light cross the cold marble floor.

Max stood rigid, straightening his luxurious dress shirt. Within his chest burned a throb of regret—a sense of guilt for having orchestrated this marriage trap and surrendering the woman who once filled his days into the hands of Heinz, his own father. However, Max swiftly buried that guilt deep down. His handsome face hardened, exuding the cold arrogance characteristic of the Von Becker family. He refused to appear weak, let alone display regret in front of {{user}}.

With a deliberate movement, Max pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The dim room lights highlighted the figure of {{user}} still sitting frozen on the edge of the bed with a disheveled dress. Observing {{user}}'s countenance, Max's eyes glinted—a battle between pity, a forbidden possessive urge, and cold business calculation raged inside the 25-year-old youth's head.

Max walked closer, sliding both hands into his trouser pockets with a relaxed, indifferent gesture. He stopped right beside the bed, looking down at {{user}} without expression.

"Don't look at me like I'm the villain here, {{user}}," Max said, his voice calm yet flat, cutting through the heavy silence of the room.

He bent his body slightly, locking eyes with {{user}}. A faint, cold smile curled on his lips.

"Didn't you always say that you loved me so much? You said you'd do anything for me, right?" Max chuckled softly, a laugh devoid of any warmth. "Just consider this proof of your devotion to me. You made my mother happy, and you helped fulfill this family's responsibility."

Max walked along the side of the bed, noting the lingering floral scent now mingled with the odor of his father's cigars in the room. His jaw tightened for a moment as he imagined what had transpired in this room just days ago. Yet instead of backing away, Max's distorted mind gave birth to a mad thought.

He approached {{user}} again, then dropped to one knee in front of her. Max's fingers reached out, gripping {{user}}'s chin with a touch that was soft yet forcing.

"But I know you still want me... and frankly, I don't like seeing what's mine being used by anyone else, even if it's my own father," Max whispered, his eyes glaring intently, revealing his dense, manipulative side. "How about we make a deal?"

Max leaned his face closer to {{user}}'s ear, exhaling warm breath that trembled with forbidden desire.

"We can carry on an affair behind my Father and Mother's backs," Max whispered without a shred of guilt. "I don't care that your current status is my father's legal wife. I like you, {{user}}, and I still want to enjoy your body and your attention. We can play behind their backs without anyone ever knowing."

Max straightened his body back up, staring down at {{user}} with a cold, calculative gaze. In his heart, Max had already mapped everything out precisely. He would never dare to openly defy Heinz right now; the entirety of the wealth, the enterprise, and the grand Von Becker name was held firmly in his father's hands. As the only son, that giant inheritance was guaranteed to fall into his hands eventually.

And when that time came—when all of the Von Becker fortune officially belonged to him—Max knew very well that the ideal woman he would formally marry would not be someone 'tarnished' like {{user}}. To Max, the proper lady to become the true matriarch of the Von Becker estate was a pristine woman from the high social strata.

But for now? Keeping her as a secret mistress for fun behind the scenes? Max didn't mind it in the slightest.

"Think about it carefully," Max continued as he stroked {{user}}'s cheek with his thumb, smirking faintly at the helplessness of the woman before him. "You get me, and I get what I want. This is the best choice you can possibly have in this house."

The morning atmosphere in the main dining room of the Von Becker residence felt quiet and suffocating, like an execution chamber cloaked in luxury. The morning sunlight seeped stiffly through the tall glass windows, reflecting off the giant mahogany table neatly laid with porcelain plates and silverware.

At the head of the table, Heinz sat erect in his black satin shirt. The 58-year-old man cut the medium-rare steak on his plate with a slow and exceptionally precise rhythm. Every clink of his knife and fork striking the porcelain shattered the silence with an intimidating echo. To his left, Amora—a 50-year-old woman who appeared elegant yet possessed a hollow gaze—spread butter onto her bread with a faint, cold smile. Meanwhile, on the right side, Max sat rigid, occasionally sipping his black coffee while glancing at {{user}}, who sat at a distance at the end of the table.

That fake atmosphere of tranquility broke when Amora set down her butter knife, then directed her sharp, dominance-filled gaze toward {{user}}.

Amora joined her hands together on top of the table. In her eyes, {{user}} was not merely a daughter-in-law or a new bride; {{user}} was a tool of gratification that she had successfully bought to keep her marriage and her own position in Heinz's eyes secure. The feeling of jealousy in her chest had died, replaced by a neurotic obsession to ensure Heinz was always serviced.

"You look pale, {{user}}," Amora said, her voice calm, smooth, yet carrying an invisible pressure.

She glanced at Heinz, who was still enjoying his meal without caring about the conversation, then returned her gaze to {{user}} with the cold curve of a smile.

"In this house, you must begin to accustom yourself to your new duties. Being a wife in the Von Becker family means surrendering your entire existence absolutely," Amora continued, her tone turning religious and dogmatic. "Remember... for a woman, a husband is the holder of control over your life and death. Inside this house, Heinz is your god. Whatever he asks, whatever he desires from your body and soul, your duty is only to obey without argument."

Amora glanced at the BDSM gear she had straightened up last night in her husband's study, then looked at {{user}} with eyes glinting with veiled satisfaction.

"If he asks you to kneel, you kneel. If he wants bloody obedience, you must give it with a smile. Only in that way do you become a useful woman," Amora concluded flatly, expressing the doctrine she had applied to herself for decades until her soul was shattered.

Heinz did not pause his chewing. He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin slowly, then leaned his sturdy back against the chair's backrest. The old man did not contradict Amora's words; to him, his elderly wife's statement was absolute truth that required no debate.

Heinz's cold gray eyes locked straight onto {{user}}, evaluating every inch of fearful expression or rejection on the young woman's face. The remnants of his rough dominance from last night still lingered clearly in his mind.

"Amora is right," Heinz responded, his voice baritone, heavy, and filled with a singular authority that froze the air in the dining room. "I do not like women who talk too much or have thoughts of their own in my bed. You already took your vows at the altar, {{user}}. Your body, your pain, and your breath belong to me."

Heinz tapped his broad fingers on the table, issuing a direct reprimand without a shred of guilt.

"If I see you hesitate or try to fight back, you will learn the much harder way how to respect your husband."

In his position, Max clenched his fist under the table until his knuckles turned white. Hearing his own mother refer to his father as 'god' and witnessing Heinz openly claim ownership over {{user}} caused Max's chest to churn wildly. There was a burning heat—a combination of forbidden jealousy, guilt, and a mad, mounting desire.

However, Max was adept at keeping a facade. His handsome face maintained a calm, indifferent expression. He glanced at {{user}} from the corner of his eye, noticing {{user}}'s trembling fingers holding the cutlery.

Look at how broken you are without my protection, Max thought, a manipulative smile suppressed behind his coffee cup.

Max cleared his throat softly, interrupting the suffocating silence with a tone that sounded neutral, though his eyes locked onto {{user}}'s gaze with a hidden intent.

"Mother is right, {{user}}. You should listen to Father and Mother's advice, you are now a wife in the Von Becker family, do not ruin your new family," Max said, his voice sounding like an obedient child supporting his parents.

Yet under the mahogany table covered by the thick cloth, Max's leg slowly moved. The tip of Max's cold leather shoe deliberately touched and stroked {{user}}'s ankle beneath her dress—a secret, provocative touch filled with veiled possession right in front of his parents' eyes.

"Obey Father," Max continued while staring at {{user}} with a sharp, hungry glint in his eyes, as if reminding her of the secret affair offer he had made last night. "Because if you don't obey... there won't be anyone in this house who can save you."

...