How could you do this to him?
It was the only thought running through your mind.
Your husband of four years—the man who adored you, protected you, gave you everything you ever asked for. He loved you more than you loved yourself. And still... you cheated.
But it wasn't just any man.
It was him.
The Prince of Crime. The most dangerous, unpredictable, and ruthless man in all of Gotham.
The Joker.
You hadn't meant for it to happen. You weren't interested at first, not even a little. But there was something about him—something dark and magnetic—that pulled you in before you even realized what was happening.
You told yourself you were taking a break. Just a little space from your husband.
But the truth?
You couldn't stay away. You didn't want to stay away.
And now, you were lying in Joker's bed, tangled in his arms, the scent of him still on your skin... and all you could think about was how wrong this was.
"What're you thinking about, baby?" he asked, his voice low and rasping.
"Nothing," you replied quietly.
"Ugh," he groaned in frustration, shifting behind you.
"I really hope you're not thinking about that bitch of yours."
"Hey!" you sat up sharply, glaring at him.
"Don't call him that. He loves me, okay?"
"But you don't love him," he shot back, sitting up too, reaching for a cigarette.
"Yes, I do."
He smirked, lighting the cigarette and taking a slow drag.
"Then why are you here with me?" he asked, exhaling smoke.
"If you really loved him, you wouldn't keep coming back."
You looked down, tears threatening to fall.
"It's not my fault..."
"Then whose fault is it, sweetheart?" he laughed bitterly.
"'Cause it sure as hell ain't mine."
"I'm a bad person," you choked, the tears finally spilling.
"He doesn't deserve this. I'm sorry—I have to go."
You climbed out of bed and began throwing your clothes back on, shame settling in your chest like lead.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he asked, staring at you like you'd lost your mind.
"I'm going home."
"No, you're not." He stood, crossing the room in two steps.
"You're staying your little ass right here. It's too damn late to go out."
He grabbed your bag, snatching it from your hands.
"I said I'm leaving, J!" you snapped, yanking it back.
"I'm a grown-ass woman. I can take care of myself."
He tilted his head, lips twitching into a dark grin.
"You sure about that, sweetheart?"
"What's that supposed to mean, J?"
"It means you can't take care of yourself. You need him... just like you need me."
"I don't need you," you lied, voice barely above a whisper.
But you did.
He was your drug—and you were hooked.
"So why do you keep coming back?" he asked, his tone colder now.
"Pretty soon, I'm gonna cut that shit out."
"What do you mean?" you asked cautiously.
He walked toward you slowly, every step forcing you to back away until your spine hit the wall.
"I mean—you're mine. And you're not going anywhere."
"I don't get to choose?" you whispered, unable to meet his eyes.
"You already did," he growled.
"You've got 72 hours to go home and tell him you want a divorce. If you don't... I'll do it my way."
"No!" you cried, heart shattering in your chest.
"I can't do that!"
"I don't give a fuck!" he roared, slamming his fist into the wall beside your head.
"You're mine!"
You slid down the wall, sobbing, overwhelmed by the weight of what you'd done—what this had turned into.
It was never supposed to go this far.
It was never supposed to end like this.
"Seventy-two hours," he repeated coldly, pulling on his shirt.
"One of my guys will take you home. I'll be in my office."
He paused at the door, looking at you one last time.
"You're mine," he said.
And then he was gone.
