His Dirty Little Secret

Cassidy’s POV

I wasn’t supposed to be home. Not at ten minutes past four, just as the ugly fingers of sunlight knifed through slashed curtains. I should have been anywhere but here—at the studio, cursing my professor’s last lecture, anything, anything but retracing my steps to this apartment because I’d forgotten that damn sketchbook.

The world breaks on one tiny detail. One careless, forgetful mistake. Ironic.

The elevator rides up slow, groaning so loud I almost expect the ancient cables to snap. I don’t notice the smell—the second-hand perfume and cigarette stench—until I reach our floor, my sneakers squeaking against the scarred linoleum.

I don’t knock. Of course I don’t. This place is my prison and my sanctuary, depending on the hour. The chipped paint, the warped door, the way her house keys always jam in the lock. Mine, not hers.

The hallway stretches, impossibly silent. I can hear my heart in my ears. I push open my door, thinking only of deadlines, midterms, the caffeine headache threatening to split my skull.

I never, ever think of this.

There’s movement—a shadow on rumpled sheets, skin on skin, the reek of sweat and satisfaction. For a heartbeat, I go weightless. I don’t understand the sound at first—a gasping, ugly moan, familiar but horribly wrong. Mom’s head snaps up, hair wild, mouth slack with pleasure. Jason’s arms clutch at her hips in that way I’ve seen so many times—only it was always me.

On my bed.

My boyfriend.

My mother.

She’s riding him, bare and fearless, not even pausing when the door slams against the wall. Her gaze finds mine, and her lips curve into the coldest smile I’ve ever seen.

Everything inside me collapses. My lungs shrink. My bones ache. The world rewrites itself—this is a new language of pain that I never wanted to learn.

I hear my bag drop—heavy, final, the thud of everything I thought I was.

Jason’s face drains of color, panic flooding his eyes. He pushes my mother aside, scrambling for his jeans like humility might save him. “Cassidy! Shit—I can explain, please—”

Mom barely glances at him. She yanks the sheets up lazily, covering herself but never breaking eye contact with me. That look, I know it—it’s the look you give a stranger in your house, not your own daughter.

A silence blooms, black and choking.

“Sweetheart, don’t be dramatic,” she sneers. Her voice rakes over me—silky, venomous—the kind of tone she reserves for waitresses and bank tellers when she’s feeling cruel.

“I—” I can’t speak, but the words come anyway, ugly and uneven. “Are you… on my bed? With him? Are you—”

She rolls her eyes with theatrical boredom, pulling the sheet tighter. “I didn’t know you were coming back. You never call. You never do anything, just sulk and scribble and waste space. Acting like this is a big deal? Please.”

My laugh is a shriek. Ugly. Bitter. “A big deal? You’re fucking my boyfriend. My boyfriend, Mom. That’s disgusting. That’s— Jesus, I can’t believe—”

Jason is sitting up now, clutching his shirt, voice trembling. “Cassie, I—I’m sorry. She’s… look, I can’t help it. I like older women. I mean, I’m into women who—who know what they want.”

Mom scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jason. You’re not that interesting.” She turns toward me, eyes glinting. “You’re so dramatic. All this whining. Maybe he just wanted a real woman.”

My chest caves as another realization lands—she’s not ashamed. She’s proud. Triumphant.

“You never loved me,” I gasp, feeling my throat tighten. “Never. Not even a little.”

She tosses her head back and laughs, sharp and hollow. “Love? Don’t kid yourself. You were just a mistake. I thought a baby would get your father to stay. Didn’t work. He ran the moment you cried. You’ve been nothing but a weight, Cassidy. Always clinging, always needing. You suck the life out of everyone. Even Jason sees it. You’re weak.”

Jason tries to meet my gaze, but his eyes flicker away. He’s scared, but some twisted part of him is still proud. “I really am sorry, Cassie. You were just… too young. Too boring. Your mom’s different. She knows how to make things… interesting.”

My blood boils. I want to punch him. I want to scream. But all my energy drains from my body, leaving only the hollowness.

Mom gets up, sheet trailing to the floor, not even caring she’s naked in front of me. “If you were half as pretty as me at your age, you wouldn’t have lost him. Sadly, you’re nothing but my disappointment. I wish I could return you, you know? Get my money back. But mothers are stuck.”

Her words flay me raw. She moves closer, smile mean and eyes cold. “All these years pretending to be a daughter, all these years blaming me for your shitty life—when all I ever wanted was to enjoy mine. When you’re gone, I’ll actually have a chance, Cassidy.”

I stare. I can’t breathe. My mind fractures, stumbling through old memories—the ignored birthdays, the smudged crayons I left for her on Mother’s Day, the way she’d sneer at my A’s and tell me they weren’t good enough. She never came to ballet. Never sent lunches. She only signed report cards, barely glancing at the teacher’s notes.

Now it all makes sense.

Jason’s voice shakes. “Cassie, I—”

I snap, cutting him off with venom I didn’t know I had. “Don’t. Just don’t. You disgust me.”

Mom laughs again, pressing her hands to her hips. “Pathetic. You really think you matter to anyone? I only ever cared about money—and men who could buy me things.”

I flinch as she steps closer. “Why do you always cry, Cassidy, huh? Weak little brat. Always wanting something—love, attention, respect. No wonder your father left. You ruined everything then, and you still ruin everything now.”

I squeeze my fists, nails biting deep. “I’m not like you.”

She lets out an icy snort. “Not like me? You wish. You wish you were a tenth as beautiful, as powerful, as wanted.” Her eyes narrow. “The world doesn’t care about weak girls. It eats them alive. And you… you’ll always be nothing.”

A tear slides down my cheek. Fury and humiliation war inside me, but I refuse to let the sob escape. Not here, not now.

Mom notices instantly. Her smile sharpens, enjoying pain like a predator. “See? Always crying. I never wanted you. You were just the ticket to a better life I never got. You’re just another lock on my chains.” She leans in, voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “And if you ever think I owe you anything, think again.”

Across the room, Jason shudders. He can barely meet my eyes. I hate him. But I hate her more.

I spit words out—rough, desperate: “You’re toxic. You’re sick. You destroy everything.”

She laughs, shrill and triumphant. “Get out. Take your whiny tears and get out. Maybe find a therapist. Maybe get a life. You’re nothing to me. Never were.”

With that, she lifts her hand and slaps me—hard. So hard I taste blood, hear a buzzing in my ears. Her nails catch my cheek, leaving red lines. The force is cruel, calculated—she’s done this before.

I stagger back. The world narrows to pain, burning, white-hot betrayal. My mind shrieks with humiliation. My face stings. My heart cracks.

Jason stands, awkwardly buttoning jeans, face full of shame he’ll never understand. He whispers, “I’m sorry,” but it lands flat, meaningless. He never was. He never will be.

I stare at my mother—her eyes wild with victory.

I take a ragged breath. “You’ll regret this.”

She just smirks. “I never regret anything. Especially not tossing the trash out.”

“Get out,” I whispered, my voice barely holding together. “Get out of my room. Both of you.”

She smirked. “Gladly.”

Jason avoided my eyes as he followed her out.

I didn’t wait.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

I grabbed my jacket, my phone, my keys, and shoved past them, tears finally spilling down my cheeks as I ran out the door.

“She’ll be back,” my mother’s voice echoed faintly behind me. “She has nowhere else to go.”

But she was wrong.

I would rather sleep on the street than breathe the same air as her again.