Control Game

Control Game
Amanda's POV

At Mike's House

I woke up and stared at the ceiling for a long time before moving. My body felt heavy, like stress was sitting on my chest. I knew it was courtesy of this freaking child in me. 

It was one of those mornings where silence did not feel peaceful… It felt like a warning. You know that moment before rain starts falling, when everywhere becomes quiet and you just know something is coming? That was how my heart felt.

Mike was already awake. His back faced me on the bed. He didn’t touch me all night. Not even an arm thrown carelessly around me or a leg brushing me by mistake. He stayed in his corner like I had suddenly turned into a stranger.

I sat up slowly and reached for my phone. No missed calls. No messages from him even though we were literally lying in the same bed. 

It annoyed me, but I swallowed the irritation before it reached my face. I wasn’t going to be the dramatic one this morning. If something was off, he would speak first. Or he would feel guilty first. Whichever one came before anger made me waste my energy.

I slid my hair behind my ear and spoke, my voice soft but controlled.

“Good morning, baby.”

He moved like my voice woke him from a trance. He didn’t turn to face me. Instead, he sat up slowly, running his hand over his head.

“Morning,” he replied with a flat tone. No warmth. No effort.

I looked at him for a few seconds. If he expected me to act like some insecure little girl shaking for his attention, he had picked the wrong woman. I won’t beg for affection. I wasn’t Diane. If my man is pulling away, I don’t pull him, I make him come back on his knees. I’ve done it before. I can do it again.

I stretched lazily, pretending not to care.

“You didn’t sleep well,” I said casually.

“I’m fine,” he answered, voice low.

Fine.

That cold tone men use when they want space but are too cowardly to say the truth.

He stood and walked into the bathroom. The door shut. There was no kiss. No soft touch. Not even eye contact. I stared at the door, my jaw tightening. Something was off. I felt it deep in my bones. Not normal moodiness. Something else. Something worse.

And I knew exactly when it started, yesterday at the hospital.

That look on his face when he saw that woman. Bold of him to think I didn’t notice the woman and the way his eyes froze. The way his body stiffened like memory slapped him hard.

No, I wasn’t stupid or blind. I saw it.

He saw someone. Someone who shook him. Someone who grabbed his heart for a second and squeezed it without permission.

Diane. The stupid sister I never asked for.

Even thinking her name irritated me. That girl had a way of existing like a shadow that refused to disappear. I already won. I got the man. I got the ring even though the wedding was yet to happen. I got what she couldn’t give him. She left in shame and silence. She lost.

But still…

Some women haunt without talking.

I got out of bed and walked to the mirror. My reflection stared back at me. My hair was slightly messy from sleep, lashes a bit clumped, lips dry. Still beautiful though. Always beautiful. But beauty alone isn’t the point anymore. Beauty was step one. Control is the real game.

I fixed my hair and leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting my face. My nose was pointed. I had full lips. Skin smooth. A quiet smile pulled at my lips. If Diane wanted a beauty war, she already lost. That one could barely keep herself together emotionally. Meanwhile, I upgraded myself every chance I got.

I sighed and whispered to myself, calm and steady:

“He chose me. He is mine.”

Reminding myself wasn't a weakness. It was focus. You don’t go into battle without repeating your win.

The bathroom door opened. He walked out with a towel around his waist. Water still on his skin. Normally I would walk up behind him, touch his shoulders, kiss his neck, mark my territory quietly and sweetly. But not today. Today I wanted him to feel like I could walk away if he blinked wrong. Confusion is power.

I flashed a small smile.

“Breakfast?” I asked.

Polite tone. Sweet tone.

The tone that makes men feel comfortable before you strike.

“No. I said I’m not hungry,” he muttered, pulling out clothes.

My smile froze for half a second. Then I relaxed it again.

“Alright,” I replied. Simple. Calm. Controlled.

He expected me to push, to ask, to beg for what’s wrong. Not happening. I don’t chase mood swings. Especially not a man’s.

He picked up his watch and phone, and I watched him from the mirror. His shoulders were tense. His jaw was tight. His mind was not in this room.

It annoyed me that that bastard of a Diane still had an effect on him while he went about denying it.

He finally looked at me… the first full look since yesterday. His eyes studied my face like he was searching for something. For a second, I thought he might say something meaningful.

Instead he cleared his throat. “I need to step out later.”

I blinked slowly. “Okay.”

He paused like he expected a fight. A question. A panic. Something.

I smiled again, wider this time.

Make them think you don’t notice the knife until they bleed.

“Let me know if you need the car,” I added sweetly.

He nodded and left the room.

When the door closed downstairs, I exhaled quietly and sat on the bed. My nails dug into my palm.

So that’s how we want to play today?

Silence and distance?

Fine.

I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over his contact but not to call. It was to check. To watch. To track his energy like a good strategist.

Instead, I clicked on a different app… social media.

If Diane was somewhere breathing in the same city as me again, I would see it. Women like her love soft motivational posts about healing and moving on. They love long captions about strength and new beginnings. Pathetic.

I typed her name slowly.

Her page was still private. Of course. Hiding like always. But her profile picture changed. And that annoyed me the most because she looked… different. Calmer. Cleaner skin. Softer eyes. Happier.

Happiness is an insult when it comes from the person you defeated.

I clicked her picture again and zoomed in. She didn’t look like a woman who lost.

She looked like peace.

And peace is dangerous.

Peace means she healed.

And when a woman heals, she becomes unpredictable.

I dropped my phone and stood up again. My heart racing from calculation. If Diane was crawling back into the picture, even by accident, she would not get the chance to breathe comfortably.

Not in my story. Not with my man.

I don’t share, and I don’t lose.

Mike might act strange for a day or two. He might think, wonder, dream, whatever foolishness his brain wants to do. But eventually he would come back to me because I always pull him back. Beauty, power, sex, silence, I know every button to press. I know his weaknesses. I know how to bend him.

Again, I whispered to myself:

“He will never choose her again.”