4

IVY

I woke up with a pounding headache and a bad taste in my mouth. The light streaming through the curtains felt like a personal attack.

“Ugh,” I groaned, dragging myself up. The room was too quiet. I looked around.

They were gone.

Good.

I didn’t want to see Janelle’s stupid face anyway.

“Fuck, Dominic! Right there, oh my god!”

I mimicked her fake moans with a mocking high voice, rolling my eyes. “Really? Moaning like a p**n star for a man who wears black T-shirts like a personality trait? That dick?”

I shook my head, annoyed at how her voice still echoed in my skull. And worse, my brain dared to flash an image of Dominic—his body, his hands gripping her hips, that look in his eyes.

“Ugh, stop it,” I muttered, slapping my own cheek lightly. “Stop thinking about his dick. Jesus, Ivy.”

I spotted a piece of paper on my dresser. Mia’s handwriting.

“Had to leave early for class. Love you. Be safe. Let me know when you want to talk. —M.”

Sweet. Typical Mia. Always looking out.

I tossed it onto my nightstand and dragged myself to the bathroom, then down to the kitchen. My stomach growled, even though I wasn’t really hungry.

The house was silent.

Dominic wasn’t there. Good.

But of course, she was.

Sitting at the dining table in a silk robe and perfect makeup at 10 a.m., my mother looked like a high-maintenance villain in some daytime soap. Her eyes slid over me like I was dirt on the floor.

I ignored her. Went to pour myself coffee.

“So,” she said. Her voice was smooth, cruel. “What now? What’s your grand plan, Ivy? Drink, sleep, maybe sleep with someone else, and ruin another reputation? That's really all you're good for. I regret giving birth to you.”

I froze.

Took a slow sip of my coffee before I turned.

“You know, I’ve been awake for less than twenty minutes,” I said, “but sure, let’s jump straight to slut-shaming. Classic mom.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I am not your friend. Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Oh, trust me, you were never my friend,” I muttered. “Friends don’t tell everyone their daughter’s a whore before asking what really happened.”

She slammed her coffee cup down. “Don’t blame me for your failures. You embarrassed this family.”

“Really?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Because last I checked, you embarrassed this family every time a new man walked through the door with his fly halfway undone!”

Her face went red. “What did you just say?”

I stepped forward, not backing down. “You wanna talk about ruining reputations? How many boyfriends have you had since Dad died? Eleven? Twelve? I lost count after the guy who tried to feel me up in the kitchen—”

SLAP.

My head whipped sideways, the sting spreading across my cheek instantly.

I stood still, breathing hard.

Silence.

“You little bitch,” she hissed. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

I turned my head slowly. My lip trembled, but I didn’t cry.

Instead, I looked her straight in the eye.

“Gladly, I don't want to see your bitch face either,” I whispered.

She stared at me like she wanted to throw another slap. I didn’t give her the chance. I walked away, back straight, coffee still in hand.

Up the stairs. Past the framed photos that never included me.

Into my room.

Door shut.

And then—I let my hand touch my face.

It was still hot.

I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.

No one else saw this version of her. No one else knew how deep the hatred went. How long had it been brewing?

And still, I wasn’t going to let her win.

She could slap me, scream at me, try to drag my name through the mud—but she would never get the last word.

I took another sip of my coffee, eyes burning, but not from tears.

Not anymore.

I paced the room like a caged animal.

My cheek still burned from the slap. My fists clenched at my sides.

She always did this—twist things, hit below the belt, slap when her words failed. And yet, she always won. Somehow. Somehow she always made me feel like I was nothing.

Screw that.

I wasn’t anything. And I wasn’t going to let her keep stepping on me.

If everyone already thought I was a slut… maybe I’d finally just be one. Own it. Take control.

And if Dominic wanted to fuck random girls in the kitchen like no one else lived here—fine.

Two could play that game.

My feet were moving before I fully processed the thought. Down the hall, barefoot, hair a mess, rage buzzing under my skin like fire ants.

I stopped in front of his study.

My heart slammed hard.

I didn’t knock.

I pushed the door open.

Dominic looked up, surprised. He was shirtless—again—because apparently clothes were optional in this cursed house.

His broad chest rose and fell slowly as he leaned back in his chair, one brow raised. “Do you need something?”

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

My mouth was dry. My knees were shaking slightly—but I held his gaze.

“I have a deal for you,” I blurted out.

Silence.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “A deal?”

I nodded. My heart was pounding so loud I could barely hear myself.

“Yeah. A deal.”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched me.

So I pushed forward.

“I know you’re not having sex with Mommy Dearest, and that's why you fucked Janelle. If you accept this deal, I won't tell her you fucked my friend. Which brings me to—” I said, using my most sarcastic voice.

Dominic still said nothing.

I tilted my chin up, stepping closer.

“So…” I breathed, my voice low now, my eyes daring, “fuck me instead.”