Atticus had always been the quiet one, always there, always watching, never seen. Every time he caught Maeve laughing beside Alex in the school courtyard, something inside him snapped. Not jealousy, exactly. Not yet. It was more than ache, a hunger he couldn't name, a fire that refused to die.
He sat on the same bench every lunch, pretending to read, but his eyes never left her. The curve of her smile, the way sunlight caught her hair, the way she tilted her head when she laughed, he memorized it all. Every detail belonged to him, even if she didn't know it.
It started as admiration. Innocent, he told himself. But soon admiration turned into need. Into obsession. Into possession. He collected her photographs, hidden in a small box under his bed.
Some were stolen from school events, others taken when she wasn't even looking. Each one was a piece of her, a fragment of the girl who would never be his.. unless he made her his.
Every day, he waited for her to notice him. Just once. Just a flicker of acknowledgment. But she never did. Her eyes always found Alex. Her laughter was never his. And with each ignored glance, each moment she didn't see him, the obsession grew sharper, hotter, impossible to contain.
By the time they graduated, Maeve and Alex walked out hand in hand. Atticus watched from the shadows, his chest tight, a bitter, dangerous promise forming in his mind: if she wouldn't be his now, she would be his later. One way or another.
Years passed. The quiet boy no one remembered became a man the world feared. Atticus built an empire with ruthless precision, he was the C.E.O known with sharp intelligence and cold control. Power suited him. It gave him what he always craved: control, respect, dominance. And still, in every decision, in every victory, there was Maeve. Always Maeve.
Then one night, he arrived at the grand mansion of Charles, Maeve's father. The guards froze, unsure if he should be stopped. Atticus didn't knock. He didn't wait. He entered as a storm would, silent and unstoppable.
Charles rose, pale and trembling. "Sir Roosevelt.. what are you doing here?"
Atticus smiled. It was calm, polished, but underneath, it was dangerous. Possessive. "I came for what belongs to me," he said softly, each word deliberate.
"You see, Mr. Charles," he continued, stepping closer, letting the weight of his presence crush the air between them, "I've waited long enough. And if you refuse, I will take her anyway. And while I do… I will make sure your family, your name, your life, all crumble around you. You know I can."
Charles' hands shook. "Please… don't hurt my family."
Atticus leaned forward, his dark eyes cold and unrelenting. "Then give me Maeve. She's mine. She has always been mine. Every laugh, every glance, every breath she took in that schoolyard belonged to me, even when you refused to see it. And now… I will claim her, whether you want it or not."
And that night, under the suffocating weight of fear, power, and obsession, Charles made a choice he swore he never would.
Maeve was handed over to the man who had watched her for years, memorized her every movement, and decided she would be his.
Atticus didn't just take her. He claimed her, like he had in every stolen glance, every hidden photograph, every silent heartbeat he had spent thinking of her. She was his completely, undeniably, dangerously his. And he would never let her go.