I thought I was marrying the most thoughtful man I’d ever met. Turns out, I was walking into a house where help meant servitude, love meant control, and a locked door became the line between sanity and betrayal.

I met Collins at 28, juggling stress and marinara sauce during my night shifts at a noisy Italian restaurant. He wasn’t flashy, but he remembered my cat’s name and once waited in the rain to offer me a ride home. Gentle, sweet, attentive — or so I thought.

We got married a year later. But slowly, the sweetness soured. “You’re never home,” became code for “quit your job.” Moving in with his mom meant I inherited chores, lectures, and lists. I didn’t marry a man — I married a warden, and Jenna was his deputy.

Then I got hurt at work. Torn ligament, out for six weeks. Collins was calm — too calm. Day one, he carried me upstairs. Day two, he locked the door behind him. A contract slid under it: cook, clean, obey — or else. I found the spare key I’d hidden months ago, and used it.

I called my sister. The police came. Collins and Jenna tried to twist it, but I had the paper, the injury, the evidence. I walked out that night — limping, shaking — but free.

They didn’t see it coming: the restraining order, the divorce, the lawsuit. Collins lost his job. Jenna lost her home. And six weeks later, when he told me I’d “ruined his life,” I smiled and said, “No — you just didn’t think I had one without you.”