Chapter1

I married my rapist. But it was completely voluntary. In fact, I really 'love' him.

StreamSpot Live. Viewer count: over 20,000.

My husband, Logan Collins, was kicking off his daily performance. He smashed the bowl of freshly made soup onto the floor. Boiling liquid splashed against my calves, but I didn't feel a damn thing.

Dead nerves don't register pain.

"Fuck! Are you trying to scald me to death?"

I didn't get mad. Without a single word, I numbly walked over to the camera and dropped to my knees. "I'm so sorry, honey. It's all my fault. I should have tested the temperature."

The live chat instantly blew up. The screen flooded with comments cursing my lack of spine, screaming at me to fight back.

[Does this bitch have a humiliation fetish?]

[An Ivy League beauty, and she's this fucking blind? Is she a masochist? Why won't she divorce this abusive piece of trash?]

[Just for clout, last time he made his wife kneel and eat leftovers off the fucking floor. Absolute scum of the earth.]

[Didn't a lawyer reach out to her? Women's rights groups offered to pro bono her divorce, but she refused. She's dead set on this guy. What the hell is she after?]

Logan’s entire channel thrived on degrading me. He farmed views by flaunting his so-called 'Alpha male' dominance inside our home.

The humiliation didn't stop there. Logan grabbed a Sharpie and scrawled something across my forehead, then snapped a close-up with his phone.

The chat quickly read the words aloud: [“I am a piece of trash”...]

He smirked at the camera and launched into his daily 'wife-taming' manifesto. "You can't spoil women, boys," he preached. "You gotta lay down the law."

'Look at those numbers.' I watched the viewer count in the background skyrocketing. He saw it too, which only fueled his manic excitement.

By the time he finally allowed me to stand, the thick foundation on my knee had rubbed off against the carpet. It revealed the livid, purplish-black corpse spots beneath.

'Shit.' Foundation made for the living really does have terrible staying power.

It melts right off in the summer heat. I quickly shifted the hem of my long dress to cover the rotting flesh.

Someone in the chat had sharp eyes: [What’s on her knee? That color is fucked up.]

But the majority didn't notice a thing. They were too distracted by my hot body and pretty face. Seeing my ultimate submissive trad-wife persona whipped his hardcore 'male supremacy' fanbase into an absolute frenzy.

[Bro, your wife is so obedient. If my girl was even half as tame, I'd wake up laughing in my sleep.]

[Tipping a Rocket! Drop the tutorial, man! How do I get my bitch to act like this?]

Logan leaned back in his gaming chair, grinning from ear to ear. He reached out and patted my head like I was a loyal, well-trained dog. "See that, boys? Set the rules straight, and the woman falls in line."

Right then, a bold, gold-highlighted SuperChat surfaced through the scrolling text, piercing the toxic mood like a nail driven into wood.

[Your wife is a vengeful spirit. Only the dead apply makeup in the middle of the night.]

Logan read it aloud and scoffed. "Bro, did you wander into the wrong script?"

The messages didn't stop.

[Does she do her makeup between 2 AM and 3 AM? That's the Devil's Hour. The negative energy is heaviest, making the cosmetics bind perfectly to the flesh.]

Logan’s smile froze for a fraction of a second.

He remembered. In three years, he had never once seen my bare face.

Every morning when he woke up, I was already lying beside him, my makeup utterly immaculate.

[A corpse needs to drain the living to maintain its skin. Does she constantly initiate intimacy? Do you always run a fever afterward? Do you feel completely drained of energy?]

Logan's expression shifted drastically. He used to be in peak physical condition. But since we got married, he’d been suffering from chronic low-grade fevers. Doctors could never find the fucking cause.

[Evil spirits have no tears. Have you ever seen her cry?]

Genuine panic flickered in Logan's eyes now. He turned to look at me.

Because over the past three years, he had stomped on my hands, written degrading shit on my face, and subjected me to every abuse imaginable. And not once had I shed a single tear.

Dead tear ducts can't produce water.

His arrogant grin vanished completely. He reached for the mouse, intending to cut the stream. But his finger hovered over the left click, hesitating.

[I am a medium. If you believe me, mix Holy Ash from a church into her makeup remover tonight.]

[If she's dead, her fake face will instantly rot away upon contact. Human or demon—you'll know soon enough.]

The chat room fell dead silent for a second.

Then, the viewer count spiked to 41,000.

Logan’s finger rested on the mouse. He slowly turned his head to look at me again. There was hesitation in his eyes, and a morbid curiosity. But more than anything, he smelled the scent of massive, viral traffic.

I gazed back at him. My eyes were perfectly docile.

He smiled.

"Alright," he said. "We'll test it tonight."