Chapter 3: Chapter 3: The Pull of Toxicity
The days following their date were a whirlwind of emotions for Amelia. Michael had texted her constantly, his messages alternating between sweet nothings and subtle demands. He wanted to know where she was, who she was with, and what she was doing at all times. At first, Amelia found his attention flattering, mistaking his possessiveness for deep affection. But as the week went on, his constant need for control began to wear her down.
One evening, as Amelia sat on her couch scrolling through her phone, a message from Michael popped up.
Michael: Dinner with your friends tonight?
Amelia froze, her stomach tightening. She had mentioned the dinner in passing earlier that day, but she hadn't expected Michael to remember—or to care.
Amelia: Yes, just a casual thing. I haven't seen them in a while.
His response was immediate.
Michael: Where?
Amelia hesitated, feeling a familiar sense of dread creeping in. She had planned to go alone, to have a night to herself without Michael's intense scrutiny. But she knew better than to lie to him.
Amelia: At Luna's. It's just a small group, really low-key.
There was a long pause before Michael replied.
Michael: I'll pick you up at 7.
Amelia stared at the screen, her heart sinking. She hadn't invited him, but it was clear she didn't have a choice.
Amelia: Okay.
She knew her friends would be surprised—possibly even concerned—when she showed up with Michael. They had met him only briefly and had already expressed unease about his intensity. But she didn't want to deal with the fallout of refusing him. The thought of his anger, of the way his eyes darkened when he didn't get his way, was enough to make her agree without protest.
At precisely 7:00 p.m., Michael was at her door, dressed impeccably as always. He didn't smile as he greeted her, just looked her up and down with a critical eye.
"You look nice," he said, though his tone lacked enthusiasm.
"Thanks," Amelia replied, forcing a smile as she grabbed her purse. She could already feel the tension building, a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.
The car ride was silent, Michael's hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as they drove to the restaurant. Amelia glanced over at him, trying to gauge his mood, but his face was unreadable. She wanted to ask if something was wrong, but she was afraid of what his answer might be.
When they arrived at Luna's, a trendy, dimly lit bistro known for its laid-back atmosphere, Michael finally spoke.
"Let's make this quick," he said, his voice clipped. "I don't want to be stuck here all night."
Amelia nodded, a lump forming in her throat. She had hoped tonight would be a chance to relax, to reconnect with her friends, but it was clear Michael had other plans.
As they walked inside, Amelia spotted her friends at a corner table. Their faces lit up when they saw her, but the smiles faded slightly when they noticed Michael at her side.
"Hey, guys!" Amelia greeted them, trying to inject some cheer into her voice. "This is Michael. I hope it's okay that he joined us."
Her friends exchanged glances, and for a moment, an awkward silence hung in the air. Then, one of them, Sarah, spoke up. "Of course, Amelia. The more, the merrier!"
They all sat down, and Amelia could feel the tension in the air. Michael's presence was like a dark cloud over the table, his stern demeanor starkly contrasting with the light, easygoing energy her friends usually had. He didn't join in the conversation, instead sitting back in his chair, watching Amelia closely, his gaze occasionally flicking to her friends as if assessing them.
Amelia tried to engage him, asking questions about his day and trying to involve him in the conversation, but Michael responded with curt answers, his eyes never leaving her.
When the waiter arrived to take their orders, Michael spoke up before anyone else could.
"We'll have a bottle of your best red," he said, not bothering to look at the wine list. "And bring us a couple of appetizers to start."
Amelia cringed at his tone. He sounded more like he was giving orders than placing an order. Her friends shifted uncomfortably in their seats, clearly noticing the tension.
After the waiter left, the conversation resumed, but it was stilted, forced. Michael's presence loomed over them, his silent disapproval palpable. Amelia could feel her friends' eyes on her, could sense their concern, but she didn't know how to reassure them—or herself.
As the evening dragged on, Michael's behavior grew increasingly erratic. Whenever Amelia spoke, he would interrupt her or correct her, his tone condescending. He barely acknowledged her friends, only speaking to criticize their choices or make snide comments. The mood at the table became more strained with each passing minute.
At one point, Sarah, trying to lighten the mood, told a funny story about a recent mishap at work. Everyone laughed, except for Michael, who frowned and cut in.
"Sounds like you need to be more careful," he said coldly, his eyes narrowing at Sarah. "If I were your boss, I'd expect better."
The table fell silent, and Amelia felt a surge of anger on her friend's behalf. But before she could say anything, Michael turned to her, his expression dark.
"And you," he said, his voice low and accusing. "You shouldn't encourage incompetence. It reflects poorly on you."
Amelia's breath caught in her throat. The sharpness of his words cut deep, and she could feel the blood drain from her face. Her friends stared at her, wide-eyed, as if waiting for her to defend herself, but she couldn't find the words. The fear of provoking his anger further kept her silent.
Seeing her reaction, Michael leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "I'm just looking out for you, Amelia," he said, his tone softening slightly. "You need to surround yourself with people who lift you up, not drag you down."
The tension at the table was unbearable, and Amelia could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. She wanted to leave, to get as far away from Michael as possible, but she was trapped—trapped by his words, his presence, his control.
Sarah, sensing Amelia's distress, reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "It's okay," she said softly, her eyes filled with concern. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to."
Michael's eyes flashed with anger, and he tightened his grip on his wine glass. "Amelia's not going anywhere," he said, his voice cold. "We're just getting started."
The finality in his tone sent a chill down Amelia's spine. She knew there was no arguing with him, not without making things worse. She forced a smile, trying to reassure her friends, but the look in their eyes told her they saw right through it.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of awkward silence and forced conversation. Amelia barely touched her food, her appetite long gone, and Michael's mood seemed to darken with every passing minute. When the check finally arrived, Michael paid without a word, his jaw clenched tightly.
As they left the restaurant, Michael's hand gripped Amelia's arm, guiding her out with a force that bordered on painful. The moment they were outside, away from her friends' concerned gazes, his facade crumbled completely.
"What the hell was that?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
Amelia blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. "What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean," Michael snapped, his grip on her arm tightening. "You embarrassed me in there, Amelia. You made me look like a fool in front of your friends."
"I didn't mean to," Amelia stammered, fear rising in her chest. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Sorry doesn't cut it," Michael growled, his face inches from hers. "You're supposed to be on my side, not theirs."
"I am on your side," Amelia insisted, her voice trembling. "I just… I didn't know what to do."
Michael's eyes blazed with anger, and for a moment, Amelia thought he might hit her. But instead, he released her arm with a shove, sending her stumbling back a few steps.
"Get in the car," he ordered, his voice cold.
Amelia obeyed without protest, too frightened to do anything else. She climbed into the passenger seat, her hands shaking as she fastened her seatbelt. Michael got in beside her, slamming the door shut with enough force to make her jump.
The drive back to her apartment was tense and silent, the air thick with unspoken anger. Michael didn't say a word, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. Amelia sat as still as possible, afraid that any movement or sound would set him off again.
When they finally arrived at her apartment, Michael turned to her, his expression cold and unreadable. "I don't want you seeing those friends again," he said flatly.
Amelia's heart sank. "Michael, they're my friends—"
"They're a bad influence on you," Michael interrupted, his voice hard. "I'm doing this for your own good. You need to be around people who understand our relationship, who respect me."
Amelia felt a wave of despair wash over her. She didn't want to lose her friends, but she knew arguing with Michael would only make things worse. She nodded slowly, tears welling up in her eyes. "Okay," she whispered, barely able to get the words out.
Michael's expression softened slightly, and he reached out to cup her cheek. "I'm only trying to protect you, Amelia," he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. "You mean too much to me. I can't have you around people who don't respect what we have."
Amelia forced a smile, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. "I understand," she said quietly, though the words felt like a betrayal of herself.
Michael leaned in and kissed her, his lips lingering on hers for a moment too long. When he pulled away, his smile was back, but it was a smile she had come to dread.
"Good girl," he whispered, his voice sending a chill down her spine. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Amelia nodded, unable to trust her voice, and watched as he drove away. The moment he was out of sight, she collapsed onto her couch, her body shaking with silent sobs. She was trapped, caught in a web of fear and control, and she didn't know how to escape.
The red flags were no longer just warnings—they were the chains that bound her, tightening with every passing day. And the worst part was, deep down, she knew she was the one who had let it happen.
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