Chapter Two

Harper's POV

Now, I’m stuck trying to scrape together what I can, paying down a debt that I didn’t create, haunted by a lie that’s easier for him to live with than the truth.

Sometimes I try to remember what it was like before all this. I try to remember our relationship before the fire, before the debt, before my name became synonymous with guilt in his mouth. There were good days once, most days were good before the fire. I remember laughter in the kitchen, the soft heat of his hand on my back, I even remember the little promises he whispered at night. But even those memories feel poisoned now, like a rotten root growing flowers that are born dead and the sweetness in them is laced with something bitter, and the warmth has long since turned cold.

I stay because I tell myself I have nowhere else to go, and maybe that's true. My mom stopped calling me years ago, long before the fire happened. That was how I ended up living with him. My friends disappeared one by one as well. Each one ghosted out of my life as I stopped replying and showing up. Somewhere along the way, it became easier to lie than to admit that I was ashamed. It was easier to say I was tired or working late than explain why my eyes were always glassy and my smile never quite reached my eyes or looked real.

But the truth is, I stay because part of me believes this is all I deserve. Part of my stays because in my mind, he's not that bad, right?

He doesn’t hit me, and he never has. For a while, well, years, I clung to that like a life raft. As if the absence of bruises made it okay. As if insults that he whispered between clenched teeth didn’t leave their own kind of scars. He doesn’t shout often either, that’s the thing. He says it all quietly, with a thin smile, and acts like he’s doing me a favor just by staying and keeping me with him.

“You’d be on the street if it weren’t for me.”

“No one else would ever put up with you.”

“I take care of you, don’t I?”

And I nod, because I don’t know what else to do. Somewhere deep down, I know those aren’t words or acts of kindnesses, they’re chains and he sees me as a possession. But when you hear the same thing enough times, it starts to sound like truth. Especially when there’s no one left to contradict him. Which I don't have. I have no one to argue and fight with him, and tell me it's wrong.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve become smaller just to fit inside the life he’s given me.

The money on the table is still there, sitting between us like a judgment because it's not enough. It never is and I know what’s coming next. He’ll push for more and now he knows about them, he’ll want me to sign up for the apps. He's going to ask me to smile at strangers and pretend it’s all my choice, and the worst is, I’ll do it.

I don't want to, but I've forgotten how to say no without fear. I also don't believe there's anything else left for me, and maybe, this is the only kind of love I'll ever get or deserve.

Mark stands and moves to the small table where I usually keep my phone. I watch as he picks it up without my permission. It's pointless me locking it, it turns into an argument of 'What are you hiding' or 'Who the fuck are you speaking to in private?'

Yeah, locking the screen is pointless, it causes more drama. I watch as he taps at the screen, and I sit here rigidly, my eyes never leaving his hands. I know he's doing something I won't like, I can feel it in my bones.

“You’re going to reply to some of these,” he says flatly.

My stomach drops instantly and the room feels suddenly colder and tighter. I’ve never done anything like this before. Yes, I’ve sold myself for sex, but this feels different. This feels like stepping into another world entirely. A world that has masks and roles, where everything is negotiated but nothing feels real, it will feel like a act, a play of some sort.

“Maybe we could try a new location instead?” I ask weakly hoping for something to save me from this.

Mark doesn’t even look at me and I know he's not even considering it. He shakes his head and lowers himself onto the sofa beside me and the leather creaks under his weight.

“Here,” he says as he shoves the phone toward me. “Message this guy first.”

I take the phone hesitantly and glance at the profile on the screen. The man is in his late forties. No... wait. My heart almost stops when I read his age. He’s fifty-three. I’m twenty-five. He’s more than twice my age, something sour rises in my throat at that fact.

I scroll further, and his list of options appears beneath his photo, all neatly itemized like a twisted menu:

Dinner date with public affection – $500

Private cuddling and conversation – $350

Teasing over clothes, no nudity – $600

Overnight stay, fully clothed, talking, movies etc – $1,200

Light discipline (negotiable) – price upon request

Yeah, even the descriptions f*el cold and clinical, it's like intimacy is just a set of tasks to be performed for a f*e. I can f*el Mark's eyes on my, waiting and already convinced that I will do it because he knows I'm too weak to refuse him.

Deep down, I want to throw my phone across the room, and scream at him, demanding a shred of dignity. Instead, I just stare at the screen and silently weigh which part of myself I'm supposed to sell next for him.