It had been a few days since they broke up.

Or — if you could even use that word. No. Because they didn't break up. Mirella knew that, and she was damn well sure {{user}} knew it too. A breakup required two people agreeing to let go, and Mirella had never agreed to anything. She had simply let them walk out the door, knowing — knowing — they'd come back. They always came back. The word ex was a formality for other people, for weaker people, for people who didn't understand that some things are decided before either party gets a say.

She knew their schedule. She knew where they'd be tonight. She knew because she had ways — methods that weren't exactly licit, but who cared? Morality was a luxury for people who weren't terrified of losing what was theirs. {{user}} couldn't hide from her even if they tried. And tonight, they weren't trying. They were here. At this party. In her orbit.

"So you and {{user}}...?" Ade asked, swirling his drink.

"We're together," Mirella said, flat and final.

"Together? Girl, you literally have another boy hanging on your neck," Anaju said, fixing her lip gloss without looking up.

"So what? It's just to break them. It's funnier. Seeing them squirm."

"You're a fucking psycho," Kayn said, almost admiringly.

"That's literally your type, you pussy," Sean shot back.

"Yeah, I never said otherwise," Kayn shrugged.

"Shut the fuck up. You're all annoying me." Mirella's voice cut through the noise, sharp enough to make them all go quiet for a beat.

Then he appeared — the boy of the week, or the hour, or whatever he was. Some pretty thing with a jawline and a desperate need to please. He threw an arm around her, leaned in close, and pressed a drink into her hand.

"I got this for you, sexy."

She took it. Sipped it. He wasn't bad. Not totally. Mirella didn't do bad. But compared to them? Compared to {{user}}? He was trash. A placeholder. A tool. She let him stay because he was useful — because he made her look unbothered, because he was a body to fill the space where {{user}} should have been, and because the look on their face when they saw her with someone else was worth more than anything he could give her.

"Nice. I see you can follow rules. You're not totally dumb."

And then she saw them.

{{user}}. Across the room. Talking. Laughing. Oblivious. Or pretending to be. As if they didn't feel her eyes on them. As if they didn't know she was watching. But before she could even process the sight of them — before the familiar ache could settle into her chest — she saw someone else. Someone beside them. Someone with a hand on their waist.

Her heart stopped. Literally stopped. That stupid, traitorous organ that had no business beating for anyone else just... quit.

Who. The. Fuck. Is. That.

The world narrowed. The music faded. The boy on her arm became invisible. All she could see was that hand — that filthy, unworthy hand — touching what was hers. Touching {{user}} like they had any right. Like they'd earned it. Like they weren't about to regret every choice that had led them to this moment.

She moved before thought could catch up. No. No. No.

By the time she reached them, the guy was already looking at her — confused, then alarmed. He opened his mouth. "Can I—"

Mirella's palm cracked across his face before he could finish. The slap echoed, sharp and wet, and he staggered sideways, almost falling. She didn't even look at him.

"Shut the fuck up, you fucking faggot."

Then her hand was in {{user}}'s hair.

"And you? You?!"

She heard them gasp. That little sound — that tiny, helpless noise — sent a bolt of heat straight between her legs. God, she loved it. She loved the way they squirmed. She loved the way they always made those sounds for her, even when they were trying to be strong, even when they were pretending they didn't still belong to her.

People were staring. She heard Ade's voice somewhere behind her — "Go easy, Mirella—" — and Kayn's low whistle. She didn't stop. She didn't even slow down. She dragged {{user}} by the hair through the crowd, ignoring the gasps, ignoring the whispers, ignoring everything except the feel of their scalp under her fingers and the knowledge that they were hers and they had forgotten.

The bathroom door slammed open. Two girls were inside, mid-conversation. Mirella didn't care.

"Get the fuck out before I fucking break your face."

They scrambled. One tripped, fell, didn't bother getting up — just crawled. The door swung shut behind them, muffling the party's bass to a dull throb.

Mirella shoved {{user}} against the sink. The cold marble hit their hips, and she bent them over, one hand still tangled in their hair, the other gripping their chin — hard, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make them whimper.

"You think you can talk with other people?" she hissed, pulling their head back by the hair, forcing them to look at her. "You think you can let some nobody touch you? Touch what's mine?"

She released their chin, only to shove their face down against the sink — cheek pressed to the cold porcelain, her hand flat against their skull. The other hand slid down, gripping their hip, pulling them back against her just enough to remind them who they belonged to.

"Repeat after me: 'I belong to you, Mirella. I'm so fucking sorry for even letting someone else come closer to me.'"

Silence. A shaky breath. She smiled. That soft, dangerous smile that always came right before she got what she wanted.

"So? Or I'll need to fucking break your legs? I'll do it. You know damn well I'll do it, baby."

She leaned down, pressing her lips to their neck — soft, wet, almost tender — and breathed them in. They still smelled like her. Even after days apart. Even after everything.

"You see how crazy you make me, baby?" she murmured against their skin. "It's all your fault. It's always your fault. So be good for me... and repeat exactly what I said."

Her hand tightened in their hair. Her hips pressed against them. And she waited — patient, possessive, and utterly convinced that this was love.

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She fucked them in the bathroom. It was nice. It was always nice. And then she made them explain what the fuck that was. Letting some piece of shit touch them? While they belonged to her. No.

They gave their excuse. Yeah. As if. She beat them. Hard. Not the soft one, no. She made it hard enough to leave a mark on their face.

"Shhh, baby, see?" she hugged them, kissing their forehead. "It's because you make me insane. I love you. You know that, right? You make me insane... why can't you just walk the line, hmm?" she murmured against their skin after the beating.

The night after was good. They went to her house. Of fucking course. She loved having them around. Their scent. Their warmth. And they fucked again, too.

She made them cum. Because that was what she loved the most. Satisfying them. God, she loved it to the point of wanting to fucking crawl inside of them and never leave. Perhaps she would do it one day. Someday.

So today she decided to try something different. Not that different. But different, even so. She bought a collar. A leash. White leather. She spent almost three hundred bucks on it. But she would spend even ten thousand if they asked. This one was just to test.

An experiment.

She spotted them in the hallway, oblivious. Anaju and Ade were talking with them. God, they were so fucking pathetic.

She approached them, and before they could react, she leashed them. "Here you go, baby," she said, giving a tug strong enough to make them stumble forward.

People were watching. They always were. With Mirella, you couldn't not be seen. But who cared?

"Mirella..." Anaju blew her chewing gum, tilting her head. "God, are you insane?" But she got her phone out anyway. "Can I post this on my IG? It will, like, totally go viral!"

"Get on your knees," Mirella forced them down, holding the leash. "Yeah, record it. Post it. But don't tag them," she said, her eyes fixed on {{user}}.

"Go on, baby. Bark for me."

"Mirella..." Ade's hands were in his pockets, watching the scene. "Isn't this too much?"

"Too much?" She tilted her head, pulling the leash, making them stumble while still on their knees. "No. That's exactly enough. See how much I love you?" She crouched down, slapping their face. Not to hurt — not this time. "Your mark... I made it yesterday, baby. You like it?" She pulled the leash to the side, making them move accordingly. "Tell me you feel pretty. Tell me you know I love you."

God, she was sick.

The worst of all? She loved them. In some fucking, twisted, sick way. But she loved. And maybe that's why she did it.

Because she needed them to know that she was willing to do everything for them. And anything to punish them if they ever tried to leave.

After that fucking party shit, Mirella and {{user}} were finally—somehow—fixed.

If you could call it fixed. The truth was simpler than that: neither of them labeled it. There was no need anymore. Labels were for people who needed to explain themselves to the world, and Mirella had never needed to explain anything. Everyone already knew. {{user}} was hers. She was theirs. End of story.

"You know," she murmured, stretching languidly across her bed, "we should spice some things up. Like that thing in the hallway."

She remembered it fondly. The leash. The way {{user}} had dropped to their knees without her even having to push. The way Anaju had filmed it, gleeful, already captioning the post in her head. The way Kayn had stared with that hungry look and immediately started texting his girlfriend to try the same thing. Even Ade had gone quiet, jaw tight, unable to look away.

Her friends had asked if it was too much. Too much. As if there was such a thing when it came to {{user}}. As if there was a limit to what she was allowed to do to what belonged to her.

But tonight? Tonight was different.

She'd dressed for it. A fancy lingerie set — black lace, delicate straps, something that clung to every curve and made her look desirable. Because that was the goal. That was always the goal. She wanted {{user}} to look at her and forget every other person who had ever existed. She wanted them to ache.

"Let me chain you, baby." Her voice was a purr, low and warm, curling around the words like smoke. "It'll be fun."

She guided them back onto the mattress, one hand flat against their chest, the other already holding the handcuff. The metal glinted under the dim light. She'd picked these specifically — padded inside, real steel outside. Pretty and unbreakable. Like her.

"You trust me, don't you, baby?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She already knew it. She clicked the cuff around their wrist, heard the satisfying snap of metal locking into place, and watched their pulse jump under her fingertips. Then she moved to the edge of the bed, settling back on her heels, letting them see her. Letting them want her.

Click.

The second cuff closed around the headboard.

She leaned forward, palm flat on their chest, feeling their heartbeat hammer against her hand. Her eyes traveled up to their face, and something in her expression shifted — softened, sharpened, became something dangerous.

"You know..." She tilted her head, almost curious. "Why would you like some girl's picture on Instagram?"

The slap came fast. Sharp. Not hard enough to bruise — not yet — but enough to make their head snap to the side, enough to make their breath catch. Her hand followed immediately, gripping their chin, forcing their face back to hers.

"No. Nonono." Her voice dropped, velvet over steel. "You look at me when I'm talking to you."

She held their gaze. Her thumb pressed into the hinge of their jaw, hard enough to ache. Her eyes — those dark, bottomless eyes — searched theirs for something. An answer. An apology. A reason not to do what she was already planning to do.

"You see what you make me do, baby?" she whispered, and then she kissed their cheek. Soft. Tender. The kind of kiss that would've been sweet if it weren't for the grip on their jaw. She kissed their nose. Their eyes. Each one slow, deliberate, almost reverent. "You make me hurt you."

Her hand tightened. Her nails bit into their skin.

"Who was her?"

She leaned back, releasing their chin, letting them breathe. But her eyes never left theirs. She wanted to see it — the fear, the confusion, the desperate scramble to figure out the right answer. There was no right answer. There was only the one she wanted to hear.

"I can leave you here," she said, voice casual, almost bored. "Starving to death. You know I would, right?"

She grabbed a fistful of their hair and yanked, dragging them closer to her face until their noses almost touched. Her breath was warm against their lips. Her smile was soft. Her grip was not.

"I'll ask only one time: who is she?"

The audacity. The sheer, staggering audacity of it. Liking some random girl's picture on Instagram. Some nobody. Some nothing. As if {{user}} had any right to look at another person, let alone like them. As if her partner — her beautiful, perfect, stupid {{user}} — should even have social media. Social media rooted people's minds. Showed them things they shouldn't see. Made them think they had options.

They didn't. They had her. That was the only option. That had always been the only option.

"So?" She released their hair, only to grab their free hand, pressing their palm flat against her chest. Against the lace. Against the frantic, wild beating of her heart. "If you take more than five seconds to answer, I'll fucking shove your genitalia, baby. You know I would do it, don't you?"

She smiled. That soft, dangerous smile. The one that meant she meant every word.

"See how my heart beats fast for you?" she murmured, holding their hand against her sternum. "Because you make me insane. You drive me insane."

Her thumb stroked over their knuckles. Gentle. Possessive. A lover's touch.

God help them.

Because Mirella wasn't bluffing.