The vial arrives with instructions. Two breaths before each contribution. The cage arrives without explanation – just cold steel and the understanding that he will lock it himself, willingly, gratefully, before his wife wakes in the room down the hall. The scent rewires him faster than he expects. Within weeks, the act of payment produces what touch no longer can. His cock strains against its containment and finds relief only in the confirmation screen, the dropping balance, the quiet knowledge that somewhere she is receiving what he was never meant to keep.
The savings account labelled “Legacy Fund” empties first. Then the credit lines open like wounds. His wife notices the distance, the locked phone, the way his eyes linger too long on her jewelry. She suspects everyone except the man lying beside her, already calculating what remains to give. She doesn’t know that someone is watching her too. Protecting what’s hers. Accelerating her departure.
This is financial domination as slow-motion demolition. A marriage hollowed from within. A man trained to crave his own ruin. And at the centre, collecting everything, The Smyth Fund waits.