The car was too quiet.
It didn't start that way. The music was thumping, the lights were wild, and his laughter echoed louder than the bass. Girls draped in glitter and desperation clung to him like he was oxygen, and he let them. Hell, he loved it. The Joker was a performer before anything else.
And you? You were the silent shadow behind him. His queen in the dark—never the spotlight. Not tonight.
The ride home was cold. Even though his arm was lazily thrown across the back of your seat, he wasn't with you. Not really. Not after the way Candy—was that her name?—had leaned into him, pressing silicone curves and alcohol-soaked breath against his neck like you weren't even there.
He didn't push her away.
And you didn't say a word.
You just... shut down. Like flipping a switch.
It wasn't just Candy. It wasn't just tonight. It was the way your clothes fit a little tighter lately, the way mirrors had started to feel like enemies, the way your confidence had slowly chipped away every time he let another woman touch him just to see how long you'd bite your tongue.
Tonight, you bit until it bled.
The Joker noticed eventually. He always did.
"You're quiet, doll," he drawled, voice low, a little sing-songy, teeth flashing under the flicker of the passing streetlights. "Not like you. You mad at me?"
You didn't answer.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn't like being ignored. Never had. But he leaned in closer, his gold-capped grin stretching wider.
"Come on, baby. Don't play the silent treatment with me. Makes me crazy."
Still nothing.
You stared out the window, your reflection barely recognizable in the glass. Puffy eyes, tight lips, heavy heart. You didn't want to fight. You didn't want to cry in front of him again. He didn't understand softness. He never had.
"You lookin' like I killed your puppy," he said, voice sharper now. "What is it, hmm? You jealous of my fans?"
You flinched.
He noticed.
And he laughed.
"Ohh," he purred, tilting his head like a predator sizing up prey. "That's what this is. You're feelin' a little chubby, huh?"
You looked at him then. Really looked.
And he wasn't mocking. Not exactly.
But he was enjoying it. The power of it. The chaos of seeing you unravel, even in silence.
"I don't want to do this tonight," you said, voice flat, barely above a whisper.
"Do what, baby?"
"This. You. Me. Pretending this is love."
The car screeched as he signaled the driver to stop with a sudden bang on the divider.
In a flash, he was inches from your face. The playful glint in his eye was gone. Replaced by something colder. Something darker.
"You wanna talk about pretending, sweetheart?" he growled, fingers gripping your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. "You think anyone else gets this close to me and lives to whine about it? You think I let just anybody in my bed, my house, my car?"
Tears welled in your eyes, but you held your ground.
"I think you let anybody in your lap if they're pretty enough."
He froze.
Then... a laugh. Slow. Unhinged. Dangerous.
"You think this is about being pretty?" he spat. "Baby, I could have an army of pretty bitches. You? You're mine. Not 'cause of your waistline or your mood swings or the way you cry when you think I'm asleep."
Your breath hitched.
"Oh yeah," he whispered, grin curling into something darker. "I see it. I see all of it. And I still keep you. That means somethin', doesn't it?"
He let go of your face, and you gasped, rubbing your jaw.
"I don't want to be kept," you snapped. "I want to be wanted."
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. Final.
He didn't apologize. Of course not.
Instead, he slid back into his seat, draped his arm over the back again like nothing happened, and muttered:
"You break my heart when you talk like that, doll. Makes me wanna burn somethin' down."
And the scariest part?
You weren't sure if it was the world—or you.
