My heart hammers.

Tonight, I'm done counting.

"You're still awake," he says.

I almost laugh. His problem? I've been his problem for three years. The rejected wife. The bargaining chip. The ghost who haunts his hallways, invisible unless needed for a photo op or a family dinner where I must smile and pretend he comes to my bed at night.

It looks like you’re asking me to develop a story piece based on the title by Adri Lu — which strongly resembles the popular dark romance/mafia trope found on platforms like Wattpad.

I unfold it. My blood turns to ice.

Like I'm his.