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Rebecca's POV

The sun was barely creeping over the horizon when I pulled into my driveway. The streets were empty, the houses still dark, the world wrapped in that fragile, innocent silence that only exists at dawn. I killed the engine and sat in the driver’s seat for a long moment

My black dress was wrinkled, it clinged to my skin like a second layer of shame. It smelled faintly of cheap motel soap and something else—something woodsy and masculine that I had come to recognize as his scent. I could still feel his hands on my hips, rough and possessive. I could still hear his voice in my ear, low and ragged, ordering me not to stop.

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to push the memories back into the dark corner of my mind where I kept them hidden.

You're home now and you're safe.

But I didn’t feel safe. I felt hollow.

I slipped out of the car, careful not to let the door slam shut. I crept up the front steps, easing the key into the lock with practiced silence. The door clicked open, and I stepped into the dark house. The air was cool and still. My parents were still asleep upstairs.

I tiptoed up the stairs, holding my breath at every creak of the old hardwood. I slipped into my room, closed the door behind me, and leaned against it, letting out a long, shaky breath.

I peeled off the black dress and let it fall to the floor in a heap. I stood in front of the mirror in just my underwear, staring at my own reflection.

My lips were slightly swollen from his kisses. There were faint red marks on my collarbone where his stubble had scraped my skin raw. My eyes looked tired, dark circles forming beneath them, but there was a strange, unsettling glow beneath the exhaustion. A glow that came from being wanted, devoured, and needed in a way that nothing else in my life had ever made me feel.

I looked like a woman who had been thoroughly, and desperately claimed.

And the worst part was—I didn’t feel ashamed. Not yet, anyway.

I turned away from the mirror, stepped into the shower, and let the cold water run over my body. I scrubbed my skin until it was red and raw, but I couldn't wash away the ghost of his hands. I couldn't erase the way my body still tingled at the memory of his touch.

I dressed in loose jeans and a soft, oversized sweater, trying to look like the girl my parents expected me to be—the aimless, innocent college graduate who had just come home for the summer.

When I walked downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee and bacon hit me. My mother was at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. My father was seated at the table, reading the morning newspaper, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

"Morning, sweetheart," Dave said, looking up with a warm, easy smile. "You're up early."

I forced a smile onto my face. "I couldn't sleep."

"Well, I've got something that might cheer you up." He set down the newspaper and patted the empty chair beside him. "Sit down and eat."

I slid into the chair, and my mother placed a plate of pancakes in front of me.

"I called in that favor with my old business partner," Dave said, his eyes bright with excitement. "The marketing firm I told you about—they want to meet you tomorrow, by ten o'clock. It's an official interview, Becca."

I blinked, the words taking a moment to register. "An interview? For the job?"

"The job," he confirmed, nodding proudly. "You've got the degree, you've got the brains, and I've got a good friend who knows a good candidate when he sees one. You're going to nail it."

I stared at him. A real job. A real career. A step toward a life that didn't revolve around motel rooms and stolen hours and the smell of a married man's cologne.

"Dad," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "I don't know what to say. Thank you. This is—this is amazing."

He reached across the table and squeezed my hand, his palm warm and rough and familiar. "I'm proud of you, Becca. You're going to do great things."

I felt a sharp, crushing pain in my chest.

My father was proud of me. He believed in me. He was spending his time, his connections, his energy to build a future for me—because he loved and trusted me. Because he thought I was still the innocent little girl he had raised.

I looked down at the pancakes. I picked up my fork and took a bite.

"Everything okay?" Sarah asked, tilting her head, her eyes narrowing with that sharp maternal intuition I had always dreaded. "You seem a little quiet this morning."

"Just tired," I said, forcing another smile. "It's a big day tomorrow. I'm just a little nervous about the interview."

Daniel chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made my heart twist. "You'll knock it out of the park. You've got my stubbornness, remember? You don't quit until you win."

I laughed, but it came out hollow and brittle.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the plate of pancakes across the room and tell him the truth—that I was a liar, a cheat, a broken woman who had traded her dignity for a few hours of filthy pleasure.

But I didn't.

I took another bite of the pancakes, forced myself to chew, and swallowed the guilt along with the food.

I couldn't stop what I was doing with Mark. Not yet. The addiction was too strong, the pull too magnetic.

But I could try to be the daughter my father deserved—at least during the daylight.

I just prayed that when the truth finally came out, he would find it in his heart to forgive me.

Because I knew, deep down, that I wasn't going to stop until someone forced me to.