From the outside, our marriage was perfect. Elegant wedding, gentle and wealthy husband — the kind of man other women envied. I thought I’d struck gold. But four months in, he hadn’t touched me.

On our wedding night, Akin had brushed my cheek and said, “I want us to build emotional intimacy first.” I’d blushed, believing him. But weeks turned into months of polite dinners, short conversations, and cold sheets.

He traveled often and kept one upstairs room locked. “Just storage,” he’d say. But curiosity grows in loneliness.

One rainy Saturday, while he was away, I cleaned the house and found myself before that locked door. I knew where he kept the key.

The lock clicked.

Inside — darkness, dust, boxes. A wardrobe stood against the far wall. Too clean. I pushed it aside. A draft. Another door.

I opened it — and froze.

A bed. A woman.

She lay hooked to an IV, a fan whirring overhead, antiseptic in the air. On the wall — a photo of her and Akin, smiling. She looked like me.

Her eyes opened. “Did he marry you too?”

I couldn’t answer. She studied my ring. Struggling to sit, she whispered, “He always brings us here… one by one.”

Us?

“There were others before me,” she said. “What year is it?”

“2025.”

Her lips trembled. “I’ve been here since 2020.”

She wasn’t injured. She was being kept.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he doesn’t love. He collects.”

Quiet, soft women, she explained. He studied us, married us, then isolated us — until we became part of his “gallery.” She handed me a torn photograph: four women in identical navy gowns, all with hollow eyes. One was her. Another — me.

Footsteps downstairs.