Chained to His Darkness

Kimmy's POV

The sharp flash of my camera cut through the studio space for what felt like the thousandth time tonight.

"Hold that angle, keep the chin up just a fraction!" I called out, my voice raspy from seven straight days of overtime.

We were wrapping up a massive promotional editorial for Vogue Horizon, and my whole body was screaming for sleep. My shoulders ached under the weight of the strap, and my eyes burned from staring through the viewfinder.

"And… cut! Perfect, everyone!" I let out a long breath, lowering the camera as the crew erupted into tired cheers.

Before I could even stretch my aching neck, my best friend and creative assistant, Maya, slung an arm around my shoulder, shoving her phone right into my face.

"Look at this, you workaholic," Maya beamed, tapping the screen. "That dark aesthetic street portrait you posted on your I*******m two hours ago? It hit two hundred thousand likes already. The comments are going wild. You’re literally viral right now, Kimmy."

I looked down at the glowing screen. To the online world, I was Kimmy Bakers—the effortless, high-fashion photographer living a glamorous, picture-perfect life. But as I stared at the screen, the excitement failed to reach my heart.

A cold, familiar knot tightened in my stomach.

"Kimmy? Hello?" Maya nudged my shoulder, her smile fading into a frown. "You’ve been completely out of it all week. What’s going on with you?"

"I'm fine... just tired," I lied softly, rubbing the back of my neck.

I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't bring myself to say out loud that for the past month, every single step I took felt watched. Whether I was leaving a coffee shop, driving to a shoot, or walking to my front door, a heavy, suffocating sensation hung over me like a shadow.

And then there were the messages.

For thirty days straight, an anonymous account had been sliding into my direct messages. No profile picture. No followers. Just cryptic, unnerving text messages that made the hair on my arms stand up.

‘I saw you wore red today. It suits you.

You shouldn't stay out so late, ma petite.’

"You're doing that thing again," Maya murmured, watching me glance nervously toward the dark glass windows of the studio. "You look like you're waiting for a ghost to jump out. Look, if you're feeling skittish, just call Ethan. Let your big, protective boyfriend pick you up and drive you home tonight."

I forced a weak smile and nodded. "Yeah. Maybe I will."

Ten minutes later, I slammed my car door shut, locking it instantly. The parking lot was dark, rain slicking the asphalt into a black mirror. My heart hammered against my ribs as I dialed Ethan’s number.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Four times.

Goes to voicemail.

I cursed under my breath, hitting redial. Again, nothing. Just the dry robotic automated voice telling me the subscriber was unavailable.

"Great. Thanks a lot, Ethan," I muttered, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. Disappointment washed over me, mixed with a bitter bite of anger. He knew how stressed I had been lately, yet he was pulling his usual vanishing act.

I started the engine, pulling out onto the wet highway. The drive back to our shared apartment was tense. Every time a pair of headlights lingered too close in my rearview mirror, my hands tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

When I finally reached our luxury residential complex, I rushed up the elevator, desperate for a warm shower and the safety of my lock.

I pushed the door open. "Ethan?"

The words died in my throat.

The living room lights were dimmed, but the space was far from empty. Five large, fierce-looking men in dark leather jackets were scattered across the open layout. Three of them were lounging on my beige velvet sofa, casually checking black handguns. Another was pacing near the kitchen island, a heavy weapon tucked blatantly into his waistband.

The metallic smell of gun oil and cold rain filled my spotless home.

I froze at the entrance, my blood running ice-cold.

Ethan stepped out from the hallway, casually rolling up his sleeves. He didn't look surprised to see me, nor did he look bothered by the armed strangers turning our apartment into a base camp.

"Ethan… what is this?" My voice trembled, but a white-hot wave of rage quickly replaced the fear. I slammed the front door shut behind me. "Who are these people? Why do they have guns in our home?"

Ethan let out a tired, dismissive sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Keep your voice down, Kimmy."

"Keep my voice down?!" I stomped toward him, gesturing wildly at the armed men who barely even bothered to look up at me. "Are you out of your damn mind? You didn't answer my calls, and I come home to find a militia in my living room!"

"They’re my crew," Ethan said coldly, his eyes flat and devoid of any warmth. He walked over to the kitchen counter, pouring himself a glass of straight whiskey. "Things are heating up on the streets. We're about to clash with a rival gang soon, so I need my guys close. Get used to it."

Get used to it.

The words hit me like a physical slap. He said it so indifferently, as if he were talking about bringing home groceries instead of bringing deadly danger right to my doorstep. I was already being stalked by a freak online, and my own boyfriend was turning my sanctuary into a war zone.

I stared at him, the scales completely falling from my eyes. The love, the patience, the endless excuses I had made for his shady lifestyle—all of it vanished in an instant.

"I'm not getting used to anything," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

Ethan paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. "What did you say?"

"We're done, Ethan."

"Kimmy, don't be dramatic—"

"I said we are done!" I shouted, the fire in my chest erupting. "I'm not doing this anymore! I'm not living like a target!"

Without waiting for his response, I turned on my heel, marched straight into the bedroom, and dragged two massive hardshell suitcases out of the closet. I threw open the drawers, unhooking clothes, shoving shoes, camera gear, and cosmetics inside with frantic, furious movements.

Ethan stood at the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching me with a smug, disbelieving smirk.

"You'll be back by tomorrow night," he scoffed softly. "You can't handle being on your own, Kimmy. You're too fragile."

I zipped the second suitcase shut with a loud, vicious yank. I grabbed my bags, pushed past him without giving him a single glance, and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled.

Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting on the edge of the guest bed in Maya’s spare room. My suitcases sat near the wardrobe, my hands still shaking from the adrenaline crash.

Maya had been an absolute angel—no questions asked, just a hot mug of chamomile tea and a fresh set of sheets.

I pulled out my phone. My heart was still heavy, but a strange sense of liberation was beginning to settle in. I opened my I*******m app. If I was cutting ties, I was doing it cleanly.

I uploaded a simple photo I had taken earlier—a blurry, moody black-and-white shot of a lonely highway under the rain.

Kimmy_Bakers: New beginnings. Walking into the dark alone, but finally breathing again. 🖤 #single #moving on.

I hit publish.

I set the phone down on the nightstand, taking a deep, shaky breath, letting my eyes close for the first time all day.

Buzz.

My phone vibrated against the wooden table.

I opened my eyes, assuming it was Maya commenting on the post or a worried fan. I reached out and tapped the glowing screen.

It was a direct message from the same unknown, profile-less account that had been harassing me for the past month.

I opened the notification. A single line of text sat on the dark screen, sending a sickening shockwave straight down my spine.

Unknown: Happy Break up, Ma Petite