Disclaimer:

This chapter contains themes of sexual harassment, self-harm, and suicidal ideation. Reader discretion is strongly advised. These topics are portrayed with emotional depth and intensity to reflect the character’s struggles, but they are in no way meant to romanticize or glorify such experiences.

This is a work of fiction—the characters, their actions, and their choices serve the story’s narrative and are not meant to justify or excuse any harmful behavior. Please remember to separate fiction from reality and avoid directing hate toward any character. If this section is too distressing or triggering for you, feel free to skip it. Your well-being comes first.

If you or someone you know is struggling, please seek support from a trusted friend, family member, or professional resource. You are not alone, and help is available.

Take care while reading.

Day 3
(Two more days until the wedding.)

The mansion was a flurry of activity—designers coming in and out, wedding planners confirming the last-minute details, tailors making final adjustments to Oikawa’s suit. The weight of the upcoming ceremony bore down on him like an impending storm, suffocating and inescapable. Every moment that passed was another step closer to something he could never undo.

Meian insisted on spending time with him, claiming they needed to look like a happy couple, needed to appear convincing for their families, for the press, for the people who believed this was the perfect match.

Oikawa, on the other hand, knew better—there was no audience in the private moments, no cameras to capture the way Meian’s hands wandered, no flashing lights to expose the way Oikawa flinched at his touch.

It started with something small, always small. A hand on his waist, fingers brushing too close to his skin under the guise of fixing his suit. A grip on his wrist when he tried to step away. A thumb stroking over his knuckles before tightening, almost threatening.

But today, it was worse. Today, Meian had him cornered in his own bedroom, his breath too close, his hands too demanding. Oikawa tried to step back, but the bed frame pressed against his legs, leaving him with nowhere to go.

“Come on, Tooru,” Meian murmured, his voice dangerously soft. “We’re going to be married. You should start acting like it.”

Oikawa’s stomach twisted violently. Meian’s touch wasn’t gentle—it was possessive, unforgiving, and it left something cold and vile in its wake. His fingers trailed down Oikawa’s neck, and Oikawa wanted to claw at his own skin, tear it away, erase the sensation that didn’t belong there.

He wanted to scream, to fight, to push Meian away—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Because Meian held everything—everyone—in his hands.

So he endured.

He endured the way Meian pulled him closer, the way he pressed lips against his skin like he had any right, the way his hands roamed with a familiarity that made Oikawa’s stomach churn.

It was wrong. It was so fucking wrong.

Only Iwaizumi could touch him. Only Iwaizumi’s hands ever felt safe, ever felt like home. But now, there was nothing left to hold onto—only a nightmare disguised as a wedding, a groom he never chose, and a body that no longer felt like his own.

Later, when Meian finally left the room, Oikawa collapsed onto the floor, his breathing ragged, his hands trembling as they clutched at the fabric of his suit.

He wanted to rip it apart, tear it to shreds because it reeked of him. No matter how hard he scrubbed, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that it didn’t happen, that he was fine—he wasn’t fine.

He felt filthy.

And worst of all, he felt powerless.

Day 3 (Continued)

Oikawa barely had time to push himself off the cold marble floor before the door swung open. He flinched at the sound, his body recoiling instinctively before he even saw who it was. But he already knew.

Meian stepped inside, his expression dark with irritation. “You’ve been hiding all day,” he said, his voice edged with something dangerously close to amusement, as if Oikawa’s suffering was nothing more than an inconvenience to him.

Oikawa didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat felt raw, clogged with something heavy—rage, disgust, humiliation.

Meian sighed and took a step closer. Oikawa took one back.

“Don’t start acting difficult again, Tooru.”

His voice was deceptively calm, but Oikawa knew better. Knew what lay beneath that carefully controlled mask. He had learned it the hard way.

Meian reached for him, fingers ghosting over Oikawa’s wrist, and Oikawa yanked himself away. “Don’t fucking touch me.” His voice was hoarse, laced with venom and barely restrained terror.

The slap came before he could react.

It was hard, brutal, enough to snap his head to the side, enough to make his vision blur for a moment. His cheek stung violently, but Oikawa refused to let out a sound. He wouldn’t give Meian the satisfaction.

Silence hung between them, suffocating and thick.

Meian exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple like Oikawa was some exhausting problem he had to deal with. “You’re mine, Tooru,” he murmured, stepping in close again. “You agreed to this. You signed your name next to mine. Do you think you get to choose now?”

Oikawa swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. His nails dug into his palms, deep enough to break skin.

Meian leaned in, close enough that Oikawa could smell the cologne that now made him sick, close enough that he could feel his breath against his temple.

“Be good for me,” Meian murmured, his hand settling on Oikawa’s hip.

Oikawa snapped.

He shoved at Meian’s chest with everything he had, stepping back like he’d been burned. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he spat, his voice shaking. His entire body trembled with fury and revulsion. “You’re disgusting.”

Meian’s eyes darkened. His jaw clenched.

Then he grabbed Oikawa’s wrist—tight, bruising, unforgiving. Oikawa struggled, but Meian was stronger. He wrenched Oikawa close, his grip a silent warning.

“You better remember your place, Tooru.”

Oikawa’s breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling in erratic bursts. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rip the world apart with his own hands. But all he could do was stand there, trapped, caged.

Meian let go after a moment, shoving Oikawa back like he was something filthy, something broken beyond repair. “Clean yourself up,” he ordered, voice dripping with disgust. “The wedding’s in two days. Try to act like you belong.”

And with that, he walked out, leaving Oikawa standing there, his body trembling, his skin crawling.

He didn’t move for a long time.

And when he did, it was only to stumble toward the bathroom, to grip the edge of the sink with white-knuckled hands, to stare at his own reflection with eyes that no longer looked like his own.

His cheek was red, his lip split, bruises littering his skin like war wounds.

He felt like throwing up.

But he couldn’t.

Because there were only two days left.

And he still had a war to win.


God, he felt dirty.

No amount of scrubbing could rid him of the filth clinging to his skin. The water was scalding, burning his shoulders as he sat curled in the marble tub, his knees drawn up to his chest. His hands trembled as they ran over his arms, his stomach, his thighs—anywhere Meian had touched, anywhere his fingers had lingered. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, no matter how raw his skin became, it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

He could still feel it—Meian’s breath ghosting over his skin, the weight of his hands, the way he looked at him like he owned him. The touch was seared into his flesh, poisoning him from the inside out.

Oikawa gagged.

He lurched forward, gripping the edge of the tub, his body convulsing with the force of his nausea. But nothing came up. He was empty. Hollow. His stomach twisted painfully, but all he could do was dry heave, his throat burning.

He wanted to tear his skin off. He wanted to scream until his voice shattered. He wanted to claw at his own body until there was nothing left of Meian’s touch, until there was nothing left of him.

Because god, he felt dirty.

Only Hajime was supposed to touch him.

Only Hajime was supposed to kiss him, hold him, leave his fingerprints on his skin. Only Hajime was supposed to be the one to know the map of his body, to trace love into his bones, to make him feel safe, cherished, wanted.

But Hajime wasn’t here.

Hajime was in a cell, suffering, paying the price for Oikawa’s betrayal.

And Oikawa was here, wearing another man’s ring, suffocating under the weight of a name that wasn’t Iwaizumi.

He clamped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking violently. He wasn’t crying. He refused to cry. Because if he started now, he might never stop.

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe.

Two days.

Two days, and this would be over.

Two days, and Hajime would be free.

Two days, and maybe—just maybe—Oikawa would finally be allowed to fall apart.

Oikawa stared at the water, at the way it rippled faintly against the porcelain edges of the tub. The surface shimmered under the dim bathroom light, calm and undisturbed. His reflection wavered—pale skin, hollow eyes, lips slightly parted as he breathed in shallow, uneven gasps. He looked like a ghost.

A dead man walking.

The water had risen past his shoulders, nearly lapping at his chin. He had let it fill the tub entirely, watching in eerie silence as it crept higher and higher, submerging his body inch by inch. His fingers trembled against the marble edge, his bruises stark against his skin. The marks—Meian’s marks—stood out like ink stains, dark and ugly, a reminder of the filth seeping into him, sinking into his bones, poisoning every inch of him.

His stomach churned.

Oikawa slowly exhaled, closing his eyes.

I can wash it away.

If he let himself sink, if he let the water swallow him whole, maybe—maybe—he wouldn’t feel Meian’s hands anymore. Maybe the filth would finally disappear. Maybe it would drown along with him.

His body moved on its own.

He let his head fall back, his legs stretching out, his arms floating loosely at his sides as he slipped under the surface. The water rushed over his face, filling his ears, silencing the world around him.

For a moment, there was peace.

No suffocating walls of the mansion. No wedding looming over his head. No bruises he couldn’t scrub away.

No Meian.

Just the water, cold and still, pressing in from all sides, numbing everything.

His chest ached. His lungs burned.

But it was better than this.

Oikawa squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself deeper, deeper. The pain in his chest sharpened, a tight, suffocating pull—one more second, just one more second—

And then, suddenly—

Hajime.

The image slammed into his mind so violently he nearly choked.

Hajime, sitting in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against Oikawa’s thigh, warmth seeping through his jeans.

Hajime, laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled at the edges, so effortlessly beautiful it made Oikawa’s breath hitch.

Hajime, standing at his side during their stupid fake beach wedding, lips quirking up at the corners, watching Oikawa with something dangerously close to love.

Hajime—free.

Oikawa gasped.

His body jerked forward, breaking through the surface, sucking in a desperate, ragged breath. Water splashed over the edges of the tub, his vision spinning, his heart pounding so violently it hurt. He clutched his chest, coughing, trembling, cold seeping into his skin.

His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else.

What the fuck was he doing?

If he died now, if he gave up now—what would happen to Hajime? To ROD? To everything he had been fighting for?

Oikawa pressed his forehead against his knees, chest heaving.

Not yet.

He wasn’t allowed to break.

Not yet.

Oikawa sat there, shivering, arms wrapped tightly around his knees as water dripped from his hair, sliding down his face like tears. His skin was burning where Meian had touched him, as if the man had branded his filth into Oikawa’s flesh, and no matter how hard he tried to scrub it away, it wouldn’t leave.

His hands clenched into fists. His nails dug into his skin, but he barely felt the sting.

How much more was he supposed to take?

How many more times did he have to let Meian’s hands roam over his skin, pretending he was okay? How much longer did he have to force himself to smile, to let Meian whisper sweet lies into his ear, to let the world believe he was the perfect, obedient fiancé?

His reflection stared back at him in the water—hollow, lifeless, wrong.

He was dirty.

He was so dirty.

Oikawa’s breathing turned erratic as his fingers clawed at his own arms, at his chest, at his neck, anywhere that Meian had touched, trying to scrape away the feeling, trying to peel off his own skin if he had to.

His nails raked over the bruises—purple and ugly and his—and he winced at the sharp pain, but he didn’t stop. He kept scratching, kept pressing, kept digging into his flesh like he could rip away the parts of himself Meian had tainted.

The water was still there, still rippling softly against the tub’s edges.

Tempting him again.

Oikawa glanced at it, at the way it shimmered under the golden glow of the bathroom lights. It would be so easy to slip under again. To let it take him.

To just stop.

His throat tightened.

No.

He dug his nails into his palms, grounding himself.

He wasn’t allowed to break.

Not yet.

Hajime was still out there. ROD was still behind bars. He had come too far, lost too much, sacrificed everything—if he stopped now, if he let himself disappear, then all of it would have been for nothing.

Oikawa forced his breathing to slow, gripping his arms as he shut his eyes.

Two more days.

That was all he had left.

Just two more days.

And then, no matter what it took—no matter what he had to do—he would burn Meian’s world to the fucking ground.