Chapter Six: Choose Me

Chapter Six: Choose Me

The suitcase wheels click hollowly across the tile.

Grace hears it before she sees her.

The front door swings wide, and her mother steps into the foyer in a cloud of perfume and European silk, sunglasses still on though the hall is shaded. She calls out, singsong and bright, “I’m back!”

Julian appears before Grace can move. He kisses her mother’s cheek politely, quickly, and Grace watches from the top of the stairs, stomach twisted in cold coils.

He’s good at pretending.

For three days, they try. As if nothing’s happened. As if the bed they share hasn’t been soaked in each other’s sweat and sin. As if her mother’s voice doesn’t grate against every moment they’re in the same room. Grace keeps quiet through dinners, through mornings thick with avoidance. Her mother chatters about Paris, about shoes, about someone named Pierre who might invest in something no one cares about. Julian listens, drinks wine, nods. Grace wants to scream.

But the cracks show.

She sees the tremor in his hand when he refills his glass. The stiffness in his spine when her mother lays a casual hand on his arm. He barely sleeps. He doesn’t touch Grace—not with hands, not with eyes—but it’s in the way he breathes when she walks by, the near-flinch when her bare leg brushes his under the table.

The air is poison now. She’s not the only one breathing it.

It comes to a head on the fourth morning.

She finds him alone in the study, the same spot where everything began. He’s staring out the window, hands clenched. She closes the door behind her, slow and quiet.

“She doesn’t see it,” Grace says.

He doesn’t turn. “She will.”

“I can’t do this. Not like this.”

He nods once, jaw tight. “I know.”

“Then say something.”

He does turn now. His face is raw, every emotion etched deep. “I love you, Grace.”

It shatters her.

“You have to tell her,” she says.

“You want me to break her?”

“I want you to choose.”

Silence.

Then footsteps. Her mother’s.

She opens the door without knocking.

“I thought I heard voices—oh.”

Julian straightens. Grace doesn’t move.

Her mother looks between them, something sharp sliding behind her eyes. “What’s going on?”

Grace steps forward. “I need to talk to you.”

Julian exhales, low and pained.

“In private.”

**

The living room is painfully bright. Grace stands near the fireplace; her mother lounges on the couch, still clutching a cappuccino like it’s armor.

“I’m sleeping with Julian,” Grace says.

There’s no preamble. No mercy.

The words drop like iron into the silence.

Her mother blinks once. Sets the cup down.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I’m sleeping with your husband.”

“You—” Her mouth opens, closes. Her voice cracks. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

She stands now. Trembling, flushed with rage. “You manipulative little bitch—”

“I didn’t seduce him.”

“Oh, but you’re so innocent?”

“I love him,” Grace says. “And he loves me.”

The slap comes sharp and immediate.

Her cheek snaps sideways. The pain flares red and deep.

She doesn’t flinch. Just lifts her eyes again, voice steady. “You never saw him. You never cared who he was.”

“You are my daughter.”

“And he’s not my father.”

Her mother’s face crumples, grief and fury clawing up her throat. “You’ve ruined everything.”

“No,” Grace says softly. “You never had it.”

She turns.

Walks out.

She doesn’t pack. Doesn’t pause.

She just walks, barefoot down the gravel path, dress flapping, chest heaving. The sun is cruel and hot and clear above her. Each step forward is a severing. Her pulse drums in her ears, her eyes sting.

Behind her—shouting.

Then the low, sudden roar of an engine.

She doesn’t look back.

The car pulls alongside her.

“Grace. Get in.”

She keeps walking.

The car stops. Brakes squeal.

The door swings open.

And Julian is there.

Out. Fast. Furious.

He catches her arm, spins her to him. His face is wild.

“You left me.”

“I told her.”

“I know.”

He stares at her, breathing hard. Then pulls her.

Opens the back door. Pushes her in.

Climbs in after her.

Slams the door.

Then silence—brief, sharp.

And then he’s on her.

Hands yanking up her dress, rough and fast. Her panties snap at the seams. He shoves her down over the back seat, bends her at the waist. His chest presses over her spine.

“Mine,” he growls.

“Yes—”

His cock slams into her, thick and hard, and she screams—raw, open-mouthed, into the leather seat. Her hands scramble for purchase. His grip clamps onto her hips, then slides up to her breasts, squeezing hard, dragging her back into him with each thrust.

“Say it,” he snarls, panting.

“Yours,” she gasps. “I’m yours—fuck—”

He pounds into her, unrelenting. The car rocks with every brutal snap of his hips. Sweat slides down his chest, drips onto her back. His teeth find her neck—bite, kiss, drag—marking her, owning her.

She comes hard, body shaking, choking on his name.

And he doesn’t stop.