Chapter 3: The Virgin Whore

**Leylie’s POV **

The following morning, I stood in front of the tall mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling, feeling like my body was nothing more than a collection of bruises held together by thin skin. I stared at my wrists; the rope burns had turned an ugly purple, circling them like permanent bracelets. My elbow was swollen, with a dull pain radiating up my arm whenever I moved.

I stared at the woman in the mirror, barely recognizing her. My once glossy blonde hair, Finnian always wanted long and shining, hung limp around my shoulders. The dark circles under my eyes were so deep they looked like bruises.

I didn't look twenty-four. I didn’t resemble the twenty-year-old girl who had once believed a handsome stranger’s smile meant the beginning of something beautiful.

The bedroom door creaked open behind me, and my breath hitched. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was him; the air changed, growing heavier and colder like it always did when he entered a room.

Finnian walked up behind me, his reflection joining mine in the mirror, looking rested and perfect as he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling my back against his chest. “What are you staring at, honey?” he murmured, voice still rough with that morning huskiness that used to send warm shivers through me. Now it just made me want to disappear.

"You still look beautiful,” he said, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against the side of my neck. I forced myself to stay still because I knew that any sign of rejection was an insult to him, and insults carried consequences.

"I would never have looked at a woman whoring herself," he continued, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror, "but you were just too beautiful to ignore. The way you moved under those lights. I couldn’t look away.”

I felt my body stiffen involuntarily at his words. I had been a cocktail waitress and a dancer to keep my mother alive, never anything more than that.

"Come on, relax," he said, sensing the tension in my spine as he squeezed my waist a little too hard. "I was just complimenting you, Leylie. Don’t be so damn sensitive all the time.”

He let out a short, sharp laugh like he was sharing a private joke with himself. “I still can’t believe it sometimes. A virgin whore. A stripper who’d never even been touched. I still laugh when I think about it. I’m the luckiest man alive to have been the one to claim that from you.”

I closed my eyes for a second, trying to block out the sting of his words. He loved to remind me of where he found me, to make sure I never felt equal to him. 

"I want to see my mother today," I said suddenly, the words slipping out in a whisper before I could second-guess them.

The warmth in his arms vanished instantly. He didn't let go, but his body went rigid. In the mirror, I watched his eyes narrow. "Are you sure? Or are you planning to see Grace? Or worse... going to see some man?"

I twisted around in his arm, desperate to let him see the truth in my eyes, hoping he’d believe me without turning this into another fight. "I just need to see my mother, Finn. She complained of severe abdominal pain the last time we spoke. You know her history. Since the ulcerative colitis diagnosis eight years ago, it’s been one complication after another. I’m really worried about her.”

Finn’s face twisted with raw possessiveness. He grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into the muscle. "I swear to God, Leylie, if you are lying to me, if I find out you have someone out there, some secret life, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand me? I will end you."

"You’re hurting me, Finn," I gasped, wincing as his grip tightened.

He looked down at his hand as if surprised to see it there, but instead of apologizing, he began rubbing the spot he had just bruised, his touch suddenly sickeningly tender. "You know I can't stand the thought of sharing you. You are mine, baby. Every part of you belongs to me."

My shoulders slumped under the crushing weight of his so-called love, which felt more like a chain around my neck each day. “I just want to see my mom. Please.”

He sighed, as if granting a grand favor. "Fine. When are you going?"

"I’m ready now," I said, gesturing to the simple silk shift I had put on. It was pale blue, a dress I thought looked modest and soft.

Finnian stepped back, his eyes traveling down my body, and I watched his expression sour, twisting into outright disgust. “What the hell is wrong with you, Leylie? You really think you can leave the house looking like that? It’s way too short. You look like you’re out hunting for clients.”

I glanced down at the dress, confusion creasing my forehead. "Finn, please. It’s not short. It’s just a little above my knee. It’s a simple summer dress."

He shut his eyes tight, his hands clenching into fists at his sides as he began breathing heavily through his nose, a sign he was trying to control his temper. “I’m trying to be a good husband here,” he hissed. “I’m trying to protect your reputation. And you’re standing there arguing with me like I’m the bad guy?”

He reached out and grabbed my wrist, the one still tender from the ropes. I cried out in pain, but he didn't let go. "I fucking said you should change, didn't I? Did I speak Spanish, Leylie? Do I need to repeat myself?"

"But Finn…"

He didn't let me finish. In one violent motion, he seized the neckline of my dress with both hands and ripped it straight down the front. The sound of the silk tearing was deafening in the quiet room, leaving me exposed and shaking in just my underwear,

“Now it’s destroyed,” he said, throwing his hands up in a mock gesture of helplessness, his voice dripping with false innocence. “I guess you’ll listen to me next time, won’t you?”

He stepped even closer, pointing a finger directly at my face. "If you want to leave this house, don't you dare step out in anything that doesn't reach your feet. I won’t have my wife parading around LA looking like a cheap whore.”

He spun on his heel and walked out, slamming the bedroom door so hard the perfume bottles on my vanity rattled and clinked against each other.

I stood there in the middle of the room, still holding the torn remnants of my dress against my skin, my whole body trembling. 

I was going to see my mother today, even if it meant wrapping myself in a shroud to do it, just for a few precious hours away from him. I reached into my closet for the longest, darkest dress I owned, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the hanger.

At least in a shroud, I’d look the part — half of me already felt dead inside anyway.