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Stuck

作者: Jo Peters
last update 公開日: 2026-04-14 02:42:42

Joe's POV

The federal building smelled like bleach and desperation.

They treated me like I was a common criminal. They processed my fingerprints and took photographs of me. A metal detector beeped because of my belt, and the guard looked at me like I had personally offended him. I wanted to tell him who I was—Joseph Pritchett, I owned buildings, I employed people and I was somebody—but the words stuck in my throat.

Nobody cared who I was anymore.

They put me in a room with gray walls, a gray ta
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  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   Public Collapse

    Clara's POVThe voice came from behind me."Hello, dear wife."Oh, dear God.The gallery courtyard was full of people—patrons, artists, journalists, strangers in expensive clothes holding wine glasses and pretending to care about art. I had been standing near the fountain, waiting for Cameron to come back with drinks, when I saw him and heard it. That voice. The one that had haunted my nightmares for four years.I turned around and saw Joe standing ten feet away.He looked terrible. His suit was rumpled, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had lost weight—the wrong kind of weight, the kind that came from whiskey and despair instead of diet and exercise. But his smile was the same. That cold, knowing smile that said I own you even when he owned nothing at all."You look… different," he said.I didn't answer.He stepped closer. "All of this. This is new." He gestured at the gallery behind me, at the people, at the lights. "You've been busy."I found my voice. It came out steadier than I fel

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   The Festival

    Clara's POVThe morning of the festival, I woke before the sun.Not because I was nervous—although I was, my stomach was a tight knot of anxiety and excitement—but because the light was different today. I lay in Cameron's bed for a moment, listening to him breathe beside me. He was still asleep, one arm thrown over his head, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm. I didn't wake him. I just watched him for a moment and thought about how different my life was from the one I had lived a year ago.A year ago, I was waking up in Joe's house, in Joe's bed and in Joe's shadow.Today, I was waking up as an artist. A featured artist. At a festival I had dreamed about since I graduated from college.I slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom to get ready.Emma arrived at the penthouse at eight o'clock, carrying a garment bag and a paper bag that smelled like croissants."Rise and shine, superstar," she announced, sweeping past me like she owned the place. "I brought options. Th

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.    The Waiting

    Clara's POVThe call came at six in the evening.I was in Cameron's kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta that I wasn't going to eat, when my phone buzzed on the counter. Daniel's name lit up the screen. I wiped my hands on a towel and answered."Daniel. What's going on?"His voice was careful. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Daniel was never careful, he was direct, blunt, the kind of lawyer who told you exactly what you needed to hear whether you wanted to hear it or not.But tonight, he was careful."They questioned Joe today," he said. "The feds brought him in."My heart stopped. "And?""And they released him."The kitchen tilted. I reached out and gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself."Released him?" My voice came out high and thin. "What do you mean, released him? He laundered money. He stalked me. He had Bryan taken. How can they just let him go?""They don't have enough to hold him yet." Daniel sighed. "The witness hasn't testified. Some of the evidence

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   Stuck

    Joe's POVThe federal building smelled like bleach and desperation.They treated me like I was a common criminal. They processed my fingerprints and took photographs of me. A metal detector beeped because of my belt, and the guard looked at me like I had personally offended him. I wanted to tell him who I was—Joseph Pritchett, I owned buildings, I employed people and I was somebody—but the words stuck in my throat.Nobody cared who I was anymore.They put me in a room with gray walls, a gray table and gray chairs and a one-way mirror on the wall that I knew was watching me. I sat down and waited.And waited.And waited.Twenty minutes, forty, an hour. I lost track of time. The air was cold and stale. There was a clock on the wall but its battery had died, frozen at 4:17. I stared at it and imagined all the things I would do to Clara when I got out of here.When. Not if.The door opened.Special Agent Reynolds walked in. No folder, no notes, just a cup of coffee and a calm expression t

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   Burned

    Joe's POVThe email came on a Thursday morning.I was in the kitchen, eating stale cereal out of the box because I had forgotten to buy milk and I didn't have the energy to go to the store. My phone buzzed on the counter. I glanced at it, expecting another text from a reporter or another notification about the hashtag or another reminder that my life was over.It was from my new lawyer.Joe, we need to talk. Call me.I called him."Harold," I said. "What's going on?"There was a pause on the other end of the line. A long pause. The kind of pause that preceded bad news, the kind of pause that said I'm sorry before the words ever left someone's mouth."I can't represent you anymore, Joe."The words landed like a punch to the gut."What do you mean you can't represent me anymore?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. "You're my lawyer. I pay you. You don't get to just quit.""I'm not quitting." Harold's voice was calm, professional, and infuriating. "I'm withdrawing from your case.

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   The Photos

    Joe's POVThe envelope was on the kitchen counter when I woke up.Or what was left of the kitchen. Most of the cabinets were empty now. The marble counters I had paid a fortune for were covered in dust and empty bottles. I didn't remember leaving the front door unlocked, but I must have. The envelope was just there, plain brown, no return address, my name scrawled across the front in handwriting I didn't recognize.I opened it with trembling hands.Photographs. A dozen of them. They were glossy and professional.I spread them out on the counter and looked at each one.The first: Clara on the bleachers, her head thrown back, laughing at something. She looked young and fucking happy. Her hair was down and the sun was on her face and she looked nothing like the woman who had cowered in my hallway.I felt something twist in my chest.She never laughed like that with me.The second: Cameron Tucker on the court, demonstrating a layup. His form was perfect, athletic and annoyingly competent.

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   Heat

    Clara’s POVMorning light filtered softly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Cameron’s penthouse, painting the room in warm golds and soft oranges. I stood by the window in one of Cameron’s oversized shirts, the fabric brushing against my bare thighs and the phone pressed to my ear as I watch

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   More shock

    Clara’s POVThe silence after security dragged Joe away felt heavier than the shouting had been.I stood frozen in the middle of Cameron’s living room, my arms wrapped tightly around myself, trying to stop the trembling that had taken over my body. My heart was still racing, my skin clammy, and eve

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   The visitor.

    Clara’s POVWho could that be?My heart jumped into my throat. It was almost midnight and Cameron’s penthouse had top-tier security, no one was supposed to get up to this floor without being announced or cleared.The knock came again. Louder and more aggressive.Cameron tensed above me, his body st

  • Dealing with Mr fucking right.   Little peace

    Clara’s POVCameron’s penthouse felt like the only safe place left in the world.I couldn’t sit still. Nahhh. The moment I stepped through the door, energy crackled under my skin like electricity that I couldn’t turn off. I paced the open living room in bare feet, my socks discarded somewhere near

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