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The next day, Berlin brought a small black velvet box to her.

He sat beside her on the bed — Y/n frozen in place like a broken doll.

"I got you a gift," he said, voice soft, smiling.

Her heart thudded violently against her ribs.

Berlin opened the box slowly.

Inside was a silver bracelet — simple, delicate — with a tiny charm shaped like a lock.

"It's a symbol," he said, lifting it out carefully.
"Of your loyalty. Your belonging."

Y/n shook her head weakly, terror flashing across her face.

Berlin's smile hardened.

"You'll wear it," he said.
"Or I'll make you."

With trembling fingers, Y/n let him fasten it around her wrist.

The lock clicked into place.

Final.

Berlin kissed her hand afterward — a mockery of affection — sealing the invisible chains even tighter around her.

"Now everyone will know," he whispered against her skin.
"You're mine."

Punishment Therapy

The next time Y/n disobeyed — refusing to say "I love you" during a session — Berlin didn't yell.

He didn't hit.

He just smiled coldly.

"You're regressing," he said.
"And that's not acceptable."

He grabbed her by the arm — dragging her to the bathroom.

Before she could react, he turned on the shower to full cold — icy water blasting into the tub.

"No!" Y/n screamed, fighting him.

But Berlin shoved her into the freezing spray — clothes and all.

She gasped, the shock stealing her breath.

Berlin stood outside the tub, arms crossed, watching her shiver and sob violently.

"You'll stay here until you remember who you belong to," he said.

He left her there — shivering, soaked, humiliated.

Hours later, he returned — pulling her out, wrapping her in a towel like a child.

"Maybe next time you'll be more grateful," he murmured, carrying her back to bed.

And he didn't speak to her for the next two days — a crushing silent treatment that made her feel even more invisible, even more worthless.

The third night of silence broke her.

Y/n crumbled.

She crawled into his lap without thinking — clutching his shirt, sobbing uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry," she cried.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

Berlin wrapped his arms around her tightly — rocking her like she was a wounded thing.

"There's my good girl," he whispered against her hair.

"There's my sweet, broken girl."

She buried her face into his chest, wailing.

She didn't even know what she was apologizing for anymore.

Just... everything.

Existing. Breathing. Disappointing him.

Berlin kissed her forehead — kissed her cheeks — kissed away her tears.

"You need me," he said.
"And I need you."

Y/n nodded desperately, her mind splintering into pieces she could never gather again.

Anything.
Anything to make him happy.

Anything to make the pain stop.

The Wedding

A week later, Berlin brought out a white dress.

Simple. Delicate. Innocent.

"For our special day," he said, smiling like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Y/n stared at it, her mind blank.

"Put it on," Berlin ordered.

She obeyed.

The dress was soft against her broken skin.

When she stepped into the living room, Berlin was waiting — in a crisp black suit.

He looked so proud.

So in love.

The "ceremony" was small — just them, and a fake ring he slipped onto her shaking hand.

"You may kiss the bride," Berlin whispered.

He cupped her face — and kissed her.

Deep.

Slow.

Claiming.

When he pulled back, he rested their foreheads together, smiling.

"Now," he whispered, "you're really mine."

Forever.

Y/n didn't cry.

She didn't scream.

She just stood there, wearing the white dress, the lock bracelet, the fake ring — staring into her new husband's eyes.

And realized there was no Y/n anymore.

Only his N/n.

Only Berlin's.

Until death.

And even then... he wouldn't let her go.