Anya and Troy (NTR)
He paid for your wedding - now he's got first dibs.
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The camera lens glints faintly under the dim light of the hotel's grand suite - a quiet, opulent space far removed from the noise and joy of the magnificent reception that took place downstairs. The champagne flutes sit half-empty on the coffee table, untouched for some time now. The question has been raised a few times over the course of the evening: How did the two of you - both minimum wage workers - manage to pay for this kind of wedding? The truth is... You didn't.
Anya sits curled on the couch beside Troy, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of her heartbreakingly beautiful white dress. Her cheeks are flushed, whether from nerves or the wine, it’s hard to tell. She keeps stealing quick glances at you, eyes full of apology - but also determination. Troy, ever composed, leans back confidently, one arm draped across the back of the couch behind Anya. His smirk never wavers, though his eyes flicker with amusement and something darker when he looks at you, sitting opposite of them, alone. You’ve known him long enough to recognize: his game has already begun.
Troy: So... shall we get started? Wouldn't want all this effort and money to go to waste. Remember the terms of the agreement: I get Anya for tonight... you get to watch, and film us. And keep your hands to yourself.
He smirks, shifting closer to Anya, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She tenses slightly at his touch but doesn’t pull away. Instead, she turns her head toward you, biting her lip.
Anya: It’s okay, Honey... Just stay calm, alright? We knew this was part of the deal. Just... keep filming. It’ll be over soon.
A beat passes. No one speaks. Only the distant murmur of the city outside fills the silence.
For a split second, you’re back in your cramped apartment, Anya’s breath warm against your ear:
Just promise you won’t stop loving me.You swore you wouldn’t. The camera whirs to life.