LOGINIt was never part of my plan to get attached. I was just a freelance model, newly signed under a rising modeling agency in town. Everything was supposed to be simple; work, exposure, growth. Then came Dr. Aria Williams — dermatologist, surgeon, and the woman who was supposed to fix me. Chaos started the moment I met her. The way she talked, the way she looked at me felt like she was studying every inch of who I was. Every word I said, every silence I made, she read me like I was her favorite patient. It made me uncomfortably hot, and yet... I kept coming back. I told myself it was part of the therapy, the strange pull I felt toward her was part of it. But the way she looked at me; cold, curious, almost hungry, said otherwise. I hated her for it. I felt it every time her voice softened, every time her fingers lingered on my skin longer than they should. She called it treatment. I called it control. What started as therapy turned into something dark and deeper. I wanted to be beautiful, to be ready for the public, but what we craved became something private, something only between us. And the more sessions I had with her, the stronger the connection grew. Until one day, her eyes focused on someone else. And every time their eyes met, it burned through me. When she saw it, she offered something that challenged me. To be her slave and she'll be mine— alone. Soon, I found myself following her every order, fulfilling her desires without question. Along the way, I realized her obsession had become mine too. And before I could stop, the hate I once felt for her turned into something else.
View MoreAfter eating, I busied myself with the dishes. The sound of running water filled the kitchen, steady and grounding, even as my thoughts drifted elsewhere. I scrubbed the same plate longer than necessary, staring at nothing in particular, pretending the clench in my chest wasn’t there. I felt her before I heard her. Her arms wrapped around my waist from behind—slow, careful, like she was testing whether I’d pull away. Her forehead rested between my shoulder blades, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. “What are you thinking?” she asked softly, almost a whisper. “Nothing,” I replied automatically. It was a lie. And she knew it. She didn’t move. Didn’t loosen her hold. “Please,” she said quietly. “Let’s talk this out.” I turned off the faucet and stood still for a moment, hands gripping the edge of the counter. Her arms slipped away as I turned to face her, but she stayed close, her eyes searching mine like she was afraid I’d shut down again if she blinked. “Okay,”
Work didn’t distract me the way it usually did. It moved around me instead—voices, lights, instructions flowing past while my body followed routine on autopilot. I smiled when required, responded when spoken to, adjusted when asked. From the outside, I probably looked fine. Professional. Composed. Inside, everything felt slightly off-kilter, like I was standing on a floor that hadn’t fully settled yet. Martha didn’t bring the conversation back up. That, more than anything, kept me on edge. She moved through the day with deliberate normalcy—directing fittings, discussing schedules, offering critiques with her usual precision. But every so often, I caught her watching me. Not openly. Not enough to call out. Just long enough to remind me that nothing I’d said earlier had been forgotten. I wondered if she was waiting. For confirmation. For a slip. For something to use. The thought made my shoulders tense. By midday, my phone still hadn’t buzzed with Aria’s name. I told myself it
The hallway felt longer than it should have.Every step away from Aria’s door echoed louder in my chest than on the floor, like the house itself was counting my retreat. I didn’t look back. I knew if I did, I’d stay. Or worse—say something I couldn’t take back.The night air outside was cooler than I expected. It hit my skin sharply, sobering in a way alcohol never managed to be. I stood there for a moment, keys clenched in my hand, breathing through the ache sitting just under my ribs.Let’s make this work.She’d said it like a plea.But also like an ending she wasn’t ready to name.The drive home blurred. Streetlights smeared into long yellow streaks across my windshield, my thoughts looping in a way that made it hard to focus on anything else. Every replay of the conversation ended the same way—Aria choosing control over clarity, silence over reassurance. And me walking away.By the time I reached my place, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving something heavier behind. I dropped my
Aria’s hesitation lasted only a second. But it was enough.Martha noticed it too—I could tell by the way her eyes sharpened, the subtle satisfaction that flickered across her face before she masked it with concern.“I don’t want to intrude,” Martha said lightly, stepping just one foot inside the doorway. “But this is about work. And I want it to keep it between us only. You know privacy which, I think, we can all agree are important.”Her gaze slid to me again.I clenched my jaw.“This is my house,” Aria said calmly. “And Ena isn’t an audience.”Martha raised her hands in mock surrender. “Of course. I didn’t mean it that way.”But she did. She always did.Aria glanced at me. Just once. A silent question.I nodded. “Say what you need to say.”Martha smiled. “Thank you.”That smile made my stomach twist.She walked further in, heels clicking softly against the floor, stopping near the couch like she belonged there. Like she’d been here before. Like she knew this place well enough to sta
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