Dominic's Little Project

May's Pov

When did it all begin?

How did I end up here, naked in bed with a man I barely knew? A man whose only defining feature was that he was the father of one of my students.

I knew nothing about him. Not his past, not his life, not the man behind closed doors. For all I knew, he could be a psychopath who lured women into his bed before disposing of them.

Get a grip, Maybelle Anderson. You’ve always had a wild imagination.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to silence the ridiculous thoughts. I couldn't even remember how I’d gotten here. Not that it mattered. There was nothing complicated about it. Two adults sharing a bed. No strings, no promises, no expectations.

Just sex.

Except… I was someone else’s wife.

Didn't that make me a slut? A cheating whore?

The word stung, even in my own head. What would sweet little Leila think if she found out her kind, gentle teacher was sleeping with her father? Would she look at me with disgust? Would she hate me?

A lump formed in my throat. Leila was such a sweet child. She didn't deserve to be tangled up in the mess of my life.

What kind of person was I becoming? Once, I’d been a woman who believed in love and loyalty. Now, look at me. Sleeping with a man who barely knew me while wearing a wedding ring that felt heavier every day.

With a quiet sigh, I pushed myself up, clutching the sheet to my chest.

That was when I noticed him standing beside the bed, buttoning his shirt as if he’d just finished a business meeting. No embarrassment. No regret. He was ridiculously handsome—tall, with dark hair, a sharp jawline, and cold hazel eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. His gaze was impossible to read, making me wonder if he was thinking at all.

With a face like that and the money he threw around, I bet women swooned over him everywhere. And apparently, I was no different.

"Here."

His gruff voice cut through my thoughts. He tossed a stack of bills onto my lap.

I stared at the money. Then at him.

Oh. Right. Of course.

A bitter smile tugged at my lips as I picked up the cash. He really did treat me like any other cheap prostitute. It shouldn't have hurt. We had an arrangement. No promises, no emotional attachments. I knew what I was getting into.

So why did being paid make me feel so small?

I didn't want his money. Oh, please, Maybelle. What are you going to do, throw it back and give a dramatic speech about your dignity? How noble. How stupid.

I needed the money. My tuition wasn't going to pay itself.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his gaze flicking to my face. "Is it too little?"

I shook my head. It was more than enough. "No. It's fine."

He didn't respond. He just continued to stare. Did I have something on my face? My fingers instinctively moved toward my right cheek before I stopped myself.

Oh, no. Could he have noticed?

I had spent an absurd amount of time covering the bruises with makeup, the same makeup that had fooled my coworkers. There was no way he could have noticed. Right?

"What?" I forced a nervous chuckle. "Don't tell me you're falling in love with me already."

It was a joke. A harmless joke to break the silence. But my hand moved to cover my cheek again before I could stop it.

His expression shifted, ever so slightly.

"What happened to your face?"

Before I could answer, he crossed the distance and pulled my hand away, his eyes studying the faint discoloration beneath the makeup. My stomach tightened.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Your face, May."

The way he said my name made my heart skip a beat. Not because it was sweet—there was nothing sweet about it. It was the calmness that unsettled me. He sounded like a man who already knew the answer.

"Oh, that." I laughed awkwardly. "I slipped in the bathroom a few days ago. The floor was wet, and I hit my face on the sink."

It was a believable excuse. People slipped all the time. So why was he looking at me as if I’d just told the most ridiculous lie in the world?

His eyes narrowed. "How do you keep falling and getting bruises every time I see you?"

My heart sank. Every time? Was he keeping track?

"Maybe I'm just clumsy?"

That was a big, fat lie. What was I supposed to say? Oh, you know, my husband has a terrible temper and occasionally uses my face as a punching bag. Yes, that would make for a lovely conversation.

We had an arrangement. We weren't lovers or friends. We had agreed to stay out of each other's personal lives, and I intended to keep it that way.

"You're lying to me."

His voice was quiet, but the words landed like a slap. He lifted my chin with two fingers, forcing me to look into his eyes. My throat went dry. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"I…" I swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I turned my face away. He watched me for another moment before releasing my chin. Then, he reached for a handkerchief and casually wiped his fingers.

I stared. Once. Twice.

Did he seriously just do that? He wiped his fingers as if he had touched something filthy. What the hell was wrong with this bastard? My cheeks burned with humiliation.

Who did he think he was? Fine, he was handsome and rich. But that didn't give him the right to treat me like I was disgusting. I wanted to slap that infuriating expression off his face.

Unfortunately, wanting to do something and actually doing it were two very different things. Especially when the man was helping me cover my bills.

I took a slow breath and forced a smile. "Same time next week?"

The question came out more cheerfully than I felt.

He adjusted his cuffs. "Yeah. I'll send you the location."

And just like that, it was over. He turned and walked to the door without a backward glance. Not even a goodbye.

The door clicked shut. I stared at it for several seconds before finally letting out the breath I’d been holding.

That son of a bitch!

Always acting so high and mighty. A simple thank-you would have been nice. Or maybe a goodbye. Anything. I threw the sheets aside and reached for my clothes, muttering colourful insults under my breath.

And the worst part? I would see him again next week.

Because somewhere along the way, what started as a strictly professional arrangement had turned into… whatever sinful mess this was. I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment things had changed. Perhaps it was the first time he looked at me with those cold eyes. Or perhaps I had simply been too desperate to care.

I had crossed a line I could never uncross.

As I slipped my wedding ring back into place, I couldn't help but wonder how much longer I could keep pretending I was perfectly fine. Because the truth was simple: I was trapped in a life I no longer recognized, doing things I’d once sworn I would never do.

And the most terrifying part? I was beginning to wonder if I even wanted to find my way out.