Beneath His Rules

IVY

I opened the front door with one hand and dragged my suitcase in with the other, smirking even before I said it.

“Hello, Mommy dearest.”

I barely got the words out before her palm collided with my cheek.

The sound echoed.

My head turned with the slap, hair flipping over my shoulder. But I didn’t flinch. I just looked at her and smiled.

“You’re early,” she snapped, arms crossed over her silk robe. Her face was already twisted into something that was probably meant to be disgust, but mostly just looked constipated.

“And you still hit like an amateur,” I said, letting the door close behind me.

She looked me up and down like I was dog shit tracked across her marble floor.

“Expelled,” she hissed. “Not even two years in, and you’re back here like some washed-up—”

“Please say whore,” I cut in sweetly. “You’re dying to, aren’t you?”

“Ivy—”

“No, go on,” I dropped my suitcase with a thud. “Whore, slut, embarrassment to the family name—say it all now so you can breathe for the rest of the evening.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You always find a way to embarrass me. Sleeping with your professor? Really?”

I rolled my eyes. “You read gossip blogs now?”

“The dean called me personally.”

“Oof.” I fake-winced. “Guess she really wanted to ruin my week.”

Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Did you do it?”

I raised a brow. “Does it matter?”

She stepped closer, finger pointed. “You had everything. Tuition, housing, allowance. And you couldn’t keep your legs closed long enough to get a goddamn degree.”

“Correction—I was getting a degree. In Business. Until someone spread false pictures of me.”

She blinked.

I shrugged. “Maybe you’d know what it feels like to be set up if you’d been sober for more than twenty minutes in your life.”

Her hand twitched like she might hit me again.

I stared at her, daring.

She didn’t.

“I don’t care what the truth is,” she snapped. “What matters is how it looks.”

“There it is,” I muttered. “Classic Mom.”

“You’re twenty, Ivy,” she said tightly. “You’re not cute. You’re not interesting. You’re a liability.”

“Wow,” I said. “Touching.”

“If you want to stay in this house, there will be rules.”

“Oh, I can’t wait.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Don’t bring boys here. Don’t sneak out. No parties. No mess. No drama.”

“So I should probably stop talking to you?”

“I swear to God—”

“I’m joking,” I said, tossing my keys into the glass bowl on the console. “Mostly.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose and looked me up and down again. “Jesus. You even dress like a hooker now.”

I looked down at my tank top and black mini skirt. “I call it depressed slutcore. It’s trending.”

“Your stepfather is still living here, by the way.”

“Lovely,” I muttered. “Haven’t seen Daddy Dom in a while.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Why not? It’s got a ring to it.”

She turned and stalked toward the kitchen. “At least try not to fuck anyone here.”

I froze.

Then I laughed. One sharp bark of disbelief.

“I’ll do my best,” I called after her.

Her answer was the sound of a wine bottle popping open.

Typical.

I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the stairs. The house still smelled the same—roses and fake lemon cleaner. Same expensive rug. Same pretentious chandelier. Same tension humming in the walls.

I paused at the base of the staircase.

So this is it. The prodigal slut returns.

Three semesters of college. One anonymous tip. One scandal.

And now I was back under the roof of the woman who gave me Botox brochures at sixteen and told me to smile more.

Back in the house with my mother.

And her husband.

My stepfather.

Dominic.

I dragged my suitcase up the stairs, taking them one by one.

I closed my bedroom door behind me and leaned on it, eyes shut.

Silence.

God, I missed silence.

The sound of my mother’s voice still echoed in my head—“Try not to fuck anyone here.”

I rolled my eyes. She’s unbelievable.

My room looked the same. The white curtains. The same posters from high school still on the wall. Everything felt smaller now, more childish. Like I didn’t belong here anymore—but I had nowhere else to go.

I kicked off my shoes, grabbed a towel, and headed into the bathroom.

The hot water hit my skin, and I finally exhaled.

I stood under the stream for a long time, letting it wash over my face, my neck, my shoulders. My chest felt tight. My eyes stung, but I refused to cry.

Not again.

I scrubbed hard, like I could erase the last few months from my skin. My jaw clenched as my fingers shook.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should be in class. In the dorm. Planning my internship. Living like a normal girl.

But no. I was back here—at square one. Because someone decided to ruin me. Because a bastard couldn't keep his small cock zipped.

No one even asked what really happened.

I shut off the water and wrapped the towel around my body. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging up the mirror.

I wiped it with my palm and stared at my reflection.

My face looked pale.

I leaned in closer, my fingers gripping the sink.

My voice came out small, barely a whisper.

“I didn’t even want him…”

My throat tightened.

“He forced himself on me.”

The words felt dirty, even though they were the truth.

It hadn’t been love. It hadn’t been some secret relationship. It was disgusting.

And then it got worse—because someone had been watching.

Pictures. Emails. All twisted to look like I wanted it.

And now?

Expelled.

Shamed.

Back home.

I gripped the sink tighter.

Why didn’t I scream? Why didn’t I run?

Because I was scared.

Because no one would’ve believed me.

Because he was a professor.

And I was just the pretty girl who got good grades and wore lip gloss.

I stared at my reflection again, lips trembling.

My stomach suddenly twisted.

A sharp, sick feeling bubbled up in my throat.

I leaned over the sink and gagged, one hand flying to my mouth.

And then—

I threw up.

The sound echoed in the small bathroom.

What the hell…?

I stayed like that for a second, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Was it the anxiety?

The shame?

Or something else?

“He molested me, but of course, no one believes.”