The morning after

Serena laid motionless on the tangled sheets,like a broken doll discarded after the storm. Her body was a map of every inch claimed and ruined. Deep bruises in the perfect shape of Donato Vitale’s fingerprints bloomed across the pale skin of her hips, the undersides of her breasts, and the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Her throat burned, raw from hours of choking on him, screaming his name against her will. Between her legs she throbbed, swollen and tender, still leaking the evidence of his final, brutal release onto the already stained sheets.

She didn’t move for a long time. The ceiling above her blurred as silent tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and vanished into her hair.

Donato had left barely an hour ago. He had kissed her forehead before slipping out into the night still streaked with someone else’s blood. The scent of violence had clung to his skin, mixing with sweat and sex. The apartment was quiet now, save for the distant growl of early traffic and the maddening drip… drip… drip of the kitchen faucet she had promised herself she would fix months ago.

Why did I let him do it again?

The question carved itself deeper into her chest with every heartbeat. She knew the plan. She had lived it, breathed it, repeated it like a rosary for three long years. Get close, make him obsessed,use your body as the weapon that destroys him from the inside out. Those words had kept her alive through the grief, through the nightmares, through the funerals she attended alone because no one else remained.

But prayers offered no shield against the shame that flooded her now.

She hated him. God, how she hated him. The way those ice blue eyes looked at her like she was already his property. The low, commanding timbre of his voice when he told her to open wider, to take more, to give more. The way he fucked her like he was punishing the universe for daring to make her exist outside his control. And worst of all the sick, treacherous part of her body that responded. The way her back arched, the way her walls clenched around him, the humiliating flood of wetness that greeted every thrust even as her mind screamed for escape.

A broken sound escaped her lips. She forced herself upright. Her legs trembled violently as she crossed the small room to the bathroom. The mirror showed a stranger: lips swollen, eyes hollow, hair a wild tangle. She looked exactly like what she was used.

The shower screamed to life, water so hot it scalded. Serena stepped under the spray and hissed as it hit every bruise, every bite mark, every raw place Donato had claimed. She grabbed the rough loofah and scrubbed with viciously between her legs until the skin stung, across her breasts where his mouth had left dark blooms, down her thighs where his hands had gripped hard enough to leave fingerprints for days. She wanted him gone.

But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she could still feel him. The thick heat of him stretching her open. The way he had growled against her ear as he came deep inside, “You’re mine, Serena. Every fucking inch.” The taste of him lingered at the back of her throat. The memory of his blood smeared fingers sliding between her lips made her gag.

Tears mixed with the scalding water. You’re a hypocrite, she thought, the words bitter as bile. You used to spit on girls like this. Girls who slept with powerful men to gain something.Now look at you spreading your legs for the devil himself, letting him fill you night after night, all for revenge.

She shut off the water with shaking hands and stood dripping in the steam, forehead pressed against the cool tile.

She dressed in her real clothes the armor of her old life. Faded black jeans that hugged her curves , a simple gray top, scuffed boots, and the silver necklace her mother had given her on her eighteenth birthday.

The subway ride was the usual sweating, rattling hell. She stood crushed between strangers, earbuds blasting aggressive indie rock, but the music couldn’t drown out her thoughts. Every jolt of the train sent fresh aches through her body, reminders of how thoroughly he had taken her. How many times he had made her come while she sobbed his name.

Why do I keep doing this? She gripped the pole until her knuckles whitened. I need to get closer and this is the only way in. But every time he touches me, I lose another piece of myself. Soon there’ll be nothing left to avenge.

The gallery was a sanctuary of peace for Serena. The little bell above the door chimed as she entered, and the familiar scents of oil paint, fresh coffee, and polished wood floors wrapped around her . Priya looked up from behind the counter, her dark braid swinging.

“Jesus, Serena. You look like you got hit by a truck. Then backed over. Then hit again for good measure.” Priya’s grin faded into concern. “Rough night?”

Serena forced a laugh that sounded almost real. “You have no idea. Neighbor’s dog got out again. Chaos until three a.m.”

She threw herself into the morning routines: updating the digital inventory, rearranging a display of new sculptures, helping an older couple choose a piece for their anniversary. For a few precious hours, she almost disappeared into the role. The girl who loved art for art’s sake. The girl who rolled her eyes at clients dropping six figures on paintings that “matched the couch.” The girl who still had principles.

During lunch, she and Priya sat on the bench outside the gallery, watching the endless parade of luxury cars glide down the avenue like sharks.

“God, I hate them,” Serena muttered, nodding toward a gleaming black Maybach that purred past. “They have everything private jets, islands, armies of lawyers and they still act like the world owes them more. They destroy lives and call it ‘business strategy.’ They step on everyone beneath them and never look down.”

Priya nodded vigorously, chewing her salad. “Preach, girl. Remember that hedge fund asshole who tried to haggle over a thirty thousand dollar piece last week? Like we should give him a discount because he’s ‘good for the gallery’s reputation.’”

Serena laughed along, but inside she felt the hypocrisy like a blade twisting between her ribs. Then why the fuck are you letting one of them fuck you raw every other night? Why are you letting Donato Vitale come inside you like it’s his right?

Later in the day the nausea hit her like a freight train around three thirty. At first she blamed the leftover Thai food or the stress or the way her body still ached from Donato’s punishment. By four o’clock she was sweating through her shirt and her stomach churning violently. She barely made it to the small staff bathroom before everything came up in violent heaves.

When the spasms finally stopped, she straightened up slowly, gripping the sink. Her reflection looked like a ghost pale skin, dark circles, swollen eyes. A terrifying thought hit her mind.

She was late, very late.

Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the small pregnancy test she had bought weeks ago “just in case.” It had lived at the bottom of her bag . She locked the bathroom door, peed on the stick with trembling fingers, and set it on the edge of the sink. The three minute wait stretched into eternity. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she felt lightheaded.

Two pink lines appeared. It was positive.

Serena’s knees gave out and she slid down the cold tile wall, the test clutched in her fist .

She was pregnant with Donato Vitale’s child. The same man she had sworn to destroy. A broken sob tore from her throat. She curled into herself on the floor, arms wrapped protectively around her still flat stomach as if she could shield the tiny life inside from the horror of its father.

What the fuck have I done?