Chapter Nine

Harper POV

I look down, already bracing myself.

BruisedLace: I really need someone to teach me how to be a good girl. So many have tried and failed.

The heat rises instantly in my cheeks, spreading through my chest and crawling up the back of my neck. I can feel my stomach turn, panic and shame tumbling over each other like children in a cruel game. I stare at the message, blinking hard, as if maybe I can will it away.

He actually sent that.

He sent that and now it’s part of the conversation.

I shoot him a look that could burn through stone, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or worse, he does, and simply doesn’t care.

“Tell them about yourself,” he barks, louder now. “God, Harper, say something normal for once.”

My hands shake as I take the phone back, trying to find something safe, something real, something that might undo what he’s just done.

BruisedLace: I’m twenty-five, by the way. Things I love… music, reading, and quiet. I’m not really social. I don’t go out much. And, between you three and me, I’ve got a bit of a murder documentary obsession.

I send it before I lose the nerve, before I overthink it and start again.

That was me. Maybe the first real thing I’ve said to anyone in what feels like forever. No mention of what I do for money, because I don’t. Not really. The money never reaches my hands. It goes to Mark. Like everything else.

Still, I know how this works. I know how first impressions stick like wet paint, how one wrong sentence can turn possibility into silence. And I already messed it up.

They won’t reply.

Not after I admitted I’m new, not after Mark’s message turned me into something desperate and hollow.

Not after I made myself look like a mistake waiting to happen.

A familiar sickness stirs in my stomach, not the sharp edge of fear I’ve grown used to, but something deeper, more hollow. I want to lean into this conversation, to let myself get caught up in curiosity, in wondering who they are and how they might speak to me if they weren’t separated by screens and usernames. I want to explore it like I would a new book, something I haven’t read yet but might love. But with Mark hovering nearby, checking my phone every time it buzzes, every word I write feels like it has to pass through his approval first.

Eventually, I set the phone down and walk away from it, forcing myself not to look back. He’ll be leaving soon, off to whatever job he’s convinced me is too important to talk about, and until then, I need space to breathe.

“I’m going to finish stitching that dress,” I say quietly, moving through the apartment toward the corner where I’ve carved out a space just for myself. It’s not much, only a small desk, a sewing machine, and two mannequins, but it’s mine. In a life where almost nothing belongs to me, this small sanctuary does.

It’s one of the few things that still brings me peace. I don’t know if I’d call it a dream exactly, but I know it makes me feel better. Some days, it feels like the only thing that does. I’ve always thought that if I could just get good enough, if I could just give it enough time, maybe I could sell my designs, maybe I could turn it into something that matters.

But Mark doesn’t see it that way. He never has.

He doesn’t like that a dress might take weeks to make when the money it brings in wouldn’t pay for more than a night or two of groceries. He sees effort as wasted if it doesn’t immediately translate into cash.

I stand in front of the two mannequins, eyeing the pieces I’ve assembled so far. The bodice is nearly finished, delicate and soft, hand-stitched with small, careful patterns I mapped out in my notebook weeks ago. The skirt, draped across the second form, still feels wrong to me. I’ve redone it twice, and now I’m wondering if I should have tried a completely different fabric.