Chapter 4

Harper's POV

The morning light slips through the slats of the blinds like thin silver knives, cutting across the worn floorboards and the cheap throw rag I once thought would make the apartment feel warmer. I don't move. Not at first. The blanket still clings to my legs, and the phone is exactly where I left it last night, tucked under the edge of a cushion like a secret I can't decide whether to bury or confess.

I hear Mark in the kitchen. His movements are deliberate today, not the impatient clatter of yesterday's fury. The kettle hums instead of screams, and when he speaks, it's with a softness that instantly sets every nerve in my body on edge.

"Coffee's ready, babe," he calls, his voice touched with forced brightness. "I made the one you like. The hazelnut."

I blink slowly at the ceiling and tell myself to breathe before I answer.

"Thanks," I murmur, quiet enough that he might not even hear it, though I know he will. He always hears everything.

When I step into the kitchen, he's leaning against the counter in a worn T-shirt and the sweatpants he only wears on days when he's playing the part of the doting boyfriend. The coffee mug he hands me has a little chip on the handle. He holds it like it's a gift, like he's done something extraordinary, and for a heartbeat, I hate how my hands take it automatically.

He smiles at me then, that particular kind of smile that looks warm but feels like a performance. "You were quiet last night," he says, conversational, like he's commenting on the weather. "I figured I'd give you space. Let you process everything."

I take a sip and nod. I'm not sure what to say. My stomach is still tight from the messages I sent, the profiles I scrolled through, the image of those three men laughing beneath city lights still echoing somewhere behind my eyes. I haven't heard back from anyone yet. Or if I have, I haven't dared check.

Mark steps closer, brushing a piece of hair off my shoulder. His fingers linger a moment too long.

"I know it's a lot," he murmurs, "but you're doing well. Good. I'm proud of you."

There it is. The sweetness. The praise that feels like honey poured over broken glass. I try to smile, but I can already feel it slipping.

"You think they'll message back?" I ask, trying to keep my tone even, as though it doesn't matter either way.

He shrugs, reaching past me to grab a spoon from the drawer. His hand grazes my waist deliberately, as if to remind me he can. "If they know what they're looking at, they will."

That should sound flattering. It should. But the way he says it makes me feel like a product on a shelf, like something polished and positioned under perfect lighting just to catch a buyer's eye.

I turn to the window instead, sipping my coffee and watching as a pigeon lands awkwardly on the fire escape, fluffing its wings like it owns the world.

"You looked through their stuff again?" he asks, voice low now.

I nod without turning. "Yeah."

"What'd you think?"

What did I think? I think I felt sick and excited all at once. I think I imagined their hands on me and then hated myself for it. I think I wanted something I don't have a name for. I think I wondered what it might feel like to be adored and used in equal measure, but only because I said yes.

"They're intense," I say instead.

Mark chuckles softly. "That's how you make real money, Harper. The ones with tame profiles? They want tame things. Tame things don't pay the bills."

He walks past me and kisses the top of my head like he's proud of himself, like this is love, like any of this has anything to do with care.

"You always were the kind of girl who could go far," he says, pouring the last of the coffee into his mug. "You just needed someone to push you there."

I nod again because it's easier than disagreeing. Because I've learned that even silence can be twisted into agreement if he decides it should be.

He sits at the table and opens his laptop. For a while, we're quiet, just the sound of the keys tapping and the fridge humming and my heart beating too fast.

Then he speaks again, too casually. "Oh, and I paid the electric bill with the cash from last night. Just so you know."

I blink. I almost asked how much was left, if any. But I already know. He's telling me without telling me that there's nothing. That's what I brought in wasn't enough again. That I owe more.

Still, I manage a smile. "Thanks."

He looks up at me, and for a moment, something in his eyes sharpens. "You're welcome," he says, his voice soft but pointed. "See? I take care of things. Like I always do."

I want to scream. I want to throw the mug across the room and ask him how the hell he gets to play hero when I'm the one selling myself to keep the lights on. But instead, I just nod again. I add another layer to the armor I wear in his presence.

"Yeah," I say, my voice quiet. "You do."

And just like that, the sharpness vanishes. He smiles again, relaxed, victorious. He thinks I believe it. Maybe some part of me still does.

I go back to the living room and curl up on the couch, phone in hand. I don't open the app right away. I sat there for a long time, just staring at the blank screen, listening to Mark type behind me.

His presence feels like a net around my ribs, invisible

But constant.

Even when he's being nice.

Especially then.

Because that's when it's hardest to remember that kindness can be a tool of control. That sometimes it's the leash you don't see that holds you the tightest.

My phone vibrates against my thigh, a subtle tremor that slices through the stillness like a whisper turned threat. I glance down with slow reluctance, already

knowing what I'll see, though still hoping, foolishly, maybe, that I'm wrong.

The screen lights up.

Your chat has been accepted by The Triumvirate.

There it is.

For a moment, I don't move. I don't breathe. Fear floods through my chest like ice water poured straight into my lungs, but somehow, it burns. The sensation rides my spine like a second heartbeat, sharp and cold and utterly consuming. I stare at the message as though the phone has transformed into something alive and volatile, a grenade with its pin already halfway pulled.

Behind me, I hear the creak of worn floorboards and then his voice, too close, too knowing.

"Talk like you would to anyone. Pretend this is for you."

Mark's breath brushes the shell of my car as he speaks, and I know, without turning, without asking, that he's looked. That he's seen. That he's watching me now, just waiting to see what I do.

But how do I pretend this is for me when it isn't? When was none of this not mine from the start? Talking like I would to anyone isn't possible anymore. That girl, whoever she was, is gone. Her voice is buried under too many silences, too many bargains, too many nights like this.

There's another vibration, and I see that a message has arrived.

I tap the notification with fingers that feel slow and unfamiliar, like they've forgotten how to belong to me.

The_Triumvirate: Morning, BruisedLace.

I blink.

Bruisedlace.

Of course. That's the name Mark chose for the profile. I hadn't even thought to look until now. It hits me like a slap, soft and sudden and strange. A joke? A brand? I don't know what it means to him, but I know what it means to me.

Lace is something delicate. Pretty. Meant to be seen, admired.

Bruised... well. That part doesn't need explaining.

Another message arrives before I can process the first.

The_Triumvirate: Firstly, thank you for the wink. We all hope you're having an amazing morning. Could you tell us about yourself? So we know more about who you are?

Tell them about me.

It sounds simple. But my heart thuds louder in my chest as the question settles there, heavy and suffocating.

Do they mean what I've done? Who have I been with? Or are they asking about preferences, desires, the kind of girl I imagine myself to be when I close my eyes and forget what real life looks like? I don't know where to begin. I barely remember what it's like to speak about myself as if I'm a person, and not a product.

The message continues.

The Triumvirate: To help you, here's some information | about us. We're businessmen, professionals, each owning our own companies. We're in our thirties and do require discretion. That means no sharing what happens with others. We can't risk our private lives mixing with business. We're looking for a baby girl who is willing to let us share her for one night while we spoil her. Typically, we play one-on-one. But occasionally, we come together... for the right lady.

I reread it twice. Maybe three times.

Businessmen. Professionals. So not just men who wear suits in their profile pictures, but ones who live that life, clients, meetings, reputations. They're at least ten years older than me, maybe more. But that doesn't surprise me. What is the way they talk about it? Calm. Direct. No sleaze. No overcompensation.

The fact that they don't do this often, that they only play together rarely, makes something in my chest ease. I'm not sure why. Maybe it makes them feel less like predators and more like men with choices. Men who don't have to do this, but want to.

Want me.

My stomach flips at the thought.

The final message arrives like a closing line.

The Triumvirate: Just tell us what you're comfortable with, and we'll work out if you're a good fit for us. Hope to hear from you soon. The Daddies.

I stare at the words.

Comfortable.

Good fit.

They make it sound like I have a say in this. Like I have the right to draw lines and expect them to be honored.

Like I'm something to be chosen... not encouraged.

But before I can decide how I feel, before I can even start to think about how to reply, I feel Mark shift behind me again.

He doesn't speak this time. He just watches.

And I realize that whatever I write back, he'll be reading it too.

I've been called a good girl before. Mark uses it often, always with that clipped tone, smooth as oil and just as suffocating. When he says it, it doesn't feel like praise. It feels like ownership, like manipulation wrapped in silk and tied with a bow he expects me to thank him for. It's not meant to lift me, not meant to make me feel seen or wanted. It's meant to remind me where I stand. It's meant to shrink me.

But when they say it, those three strangers behind the screen, their words still lingering in my head from the night before, it doesn't carry that same edge. I haven't heard it aloud, not yet, but even in print, it lands differently. The weight of it is softer. Heavier, somehow, but not cruel. It sounds like something I might want to believe in.

As for being called a bad girl, that one's been thrown at me more times than I can count, usually by the kinds of men who paid cash and acted like that meant they could say whatever they wanted. For them, it was a kink, something they muttered with a groan while groping at my thighs, like the words alone were enough to turn me into whatever fantasy they'd bought. But it never felt sexy. It felt dirty in a way that made my skin crawl, like being called trash with a smile. They always made it sound like an insult, pretending to be foreplay.

I try to shake the memories loose, try to breathe through the tight knot forming just beneath my ribs. I can't let the nerves gnaw at me again. Not today. Not after I already sent the wink, already opened the door.

"Babe, just think," Mark says from across the room, his voice sweetened with the kind of false hope I've learned to fear more than his silence. "You do this three or four times, and everything's sorted. We can buy another house, get out of this dump. You won't have to do this anymore."

He grins like he's just offered me salvation, like the freedom he's dangling in front of me is a promise instead of a leash he's planning to shorten. He says it like he means it, like he's doing me a favor.

Maybe that part of me is the weakest one.

I open the app again, ignoring the pressure in my chest as I pull up the chat. My fingers are stiff, awkward, but I force them to move.

Bruised Lace: Hi, Daddies. Should I call you that? I'm not sure. I've never done anything like this before, so I'm nervous to the point my hands are shaking. This is all new for me.

I hit send before I could second-guess myself and immediately regret it. The words sit there like something half-dressed and shivering, vulnerable in a way I didn't mean to be. I just told them I'm inexperienced, that I don't know the rules, that I'm walking into this blind and begging not to trip.

Why would they even bother replying now?

I try to recover, scrambling to find my footing before the moment slips away.

BruisedLace: I want to learn, though.

The message sends, and for a breath, I feel like maybe I've steadied the fall.

Then Mark's hand closes around the phone before I can stop him.

"Say something that makes them want you," he says without looking at me, already typing. "Jesus, Harper, you've got to make them want to reply."

He finishes whatever thought he had and shoves the phone back into my lap. I look down, already bracing myself.

BruisedLace: I 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 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 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.