Chapter 3 FORCED

Stacy’s POV

The name of the event hit me like a punch to the stomach. The Sterling Gala. I could still remember the awful taste of cheap champagne, still feel strange hands grabbing my waist. The memories came flooding back, making me feel sick.

"No," I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it. I moved back until my shoulders touched the cold wall. "Matt, please. Not that again. I… I can't."

His face changed completely, all that fake kindness disappearing. "You can't?" he repeated, his voice quiet but dangerous. He stepped closer, and suddenly the room felt much smaller. "What did you just say to me?"

Fear grabbed my throat. My mind raced, looking for any excuse, any way out. "I'm not feeling well. I think I'm getting sick. A fever. You wouldn't want me to embarrass you by being sick in front of everyone, would you?" The words tumbled out fast, desperate. "I'll be useless to you."

A slow, mean smile spread across his face. He shook his head like I was a stupid child. "Pathetic. That's a pathetic try, Stacy." He walked over to the fancy chest at the end of our bed. My heart started beating so fast it hurt. I knew what was inside. I knew the sound it made when he opened it.

The lock clicked. The sound was so loud. He reached inside and pulled it out. The short leather whip. It wasn't just for show. He ran his fingers over the handle, staring right at me.

My legs felt weak. Last time he used it, I couldn't sit right for three days. I had to tell his mother I fell down the stairs when she saw me wincing.

"You remember what this is for, don't you?" he said softly. "It's used to remind you. For when you forget your place. For when you say 'no'."

I closed my eyes tight, but it didn't help. It never did. "Don't. Please."

"Get on the bed. On your knees. Now."

My body moved by itself, trained by fear and months of this twisted routine. Shaking, I crawled onto the bed, my knees sinking into the soft silk duvet that felt more like a bed of thorns than comfort. I hate this. I hate him. But I couldn’t stop myself. His footsteps approached, each one echoing in the silence like a drumbeat of dread. I braced myself, my whole body stiff, every muscle tense with anticipation.

The first strike came without warning. Crack! The leather whip sliced through the air, landing on my back with a searing pain that made me cry out. I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat as my hands clawed at the sheets. Again and again, he struck, each lash a brutal reminder of his control over me. My vision blurred with tears, but I didn’t dare move. I knew better than that.

Then, suddenly, the blows stopped. I gasped for air, my body trembling uncontrollably. Before I could even process it, I felt the cold leather of the whip against my neck. He wrapped it around me, pulling it tight enough to make me choke. My hands instinctively reached up to pull at it, but he yanked it harder, cutting off my breath.

"You will go to the gala," he hissed in my ear, his voice low and venomous. His free hand gripped my hair, forcing my face into the mattress. "You will be the most beautiful woman there. You will smile until your face hurts. You will make Harrison's perfect little wife look cheap. And you will make that investor want you so badly that he'll sign whatever I give him."

His hips pressed against me, and I could feel he was hard. A wave of pure disgust washed through me like dirty water, making me sick to my stomach. I tried to speak, to protest, but the leather around my neck tightened again, silencing me.

"Do you understand?" he growled, his voice a mixture of anger and desire. "This isn’t a request, Stacy. It’s an order."

I nodded weakly, unable to do anything else. His grip on the whip loosened slightly, allowing me to breathe again, but the weight of his body still pinned me down. I hate this. I hate him. But deep down, I knew I didn’t have a choice. I never did.

"Good girl," he whispered, his voice mocking now as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against my ear. "Now, get up. We have shopping to do. You need a dress that screams fuck me."

And just like that, the whip came down again.

The rest of the day felt like a bad dream of bright lights and mean looks. He picked a dress that was almost completely backless, with a neckline cut so low I was afraid to breathe too deep. The red fabric was so tight it showed everything.

I stared at myself in the changing room mirror. The woman looking back at me was a stranger.

"Perfect," Matt said, his eyes shining with something that wasn't love. "They won't be able to control themselves. They will offer me more deals after you satisfy them."

My stomach twisted into knots.

That night, the gala was hell, dressed up in pretty lights and fake laughter. The dress felt like a second skin, too tight, showing too much. I was like a cow on display at a fair. Matt's hand gripped my elbow hard, steering me through the crowd, a big fake smile on his face for everyone else.

We barely walked ten steps into the big hall before he saw her. Sarah Harrison, wearing a classy dark blue dress that looked both fancy and stunning. She stood with a group of people around her, her laugh pretty and practiced.

Matt's grip on my arm loosened right away. "Wait here," he said, not even looking at me. "I need to talk to some people."

I watched as he walked straight to Sarah, his whole body changing. His shoulders relaxed, his smile became real, warm even. He leaned in close to say something that made her laugh, touching her arm like they were close friends.

My chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped everything out.

"Mingle," he said over his shoulder, dismissing me completely before turning all his attention back to Sarah and her group.

I stood there, alone in a crowd of strangers, feeling exposed and stupid in this dress he'd chosen. The whispers started right away. A group of women nearby, their expensive dresses tasteful and elegant, looked me up and down with barely hidden disgust.

"Is that Matt Harrington's wife?" one of them said, not even trying to be quiet.

"Oh God, yes," another one replied. "Look at what she's wearing. How desperate."

My face burned. I tried to smile but my lips felt numb, frozen.

I tried to walk away, to find somewhere less crowded, but everywhere I went, eyes followed me. Judging. Looking. Finding me not good enough.

"…Matt's new toy? A bit… obvious, don't you think? Sarah Harrison would never dress like that."

"I heard she trapped him with the marriage. His parents set it up."

"Well, clearly he's regretting it. Look at him over there with Sarah. That's where he wants to be."

Each word was like a small cut. My skin prickled with shame.

I found a small corner near a big plant, trying to make myself invisible. It was useless. I was the brightest, most exposed thing in the room. My skin crawled with the feeling of eyes on me, judging, wanting.

A woman I sort of recognized from other events walked up to me, her smile sharp and mean. "Stacy, darling. That dress is certainly… bold. Did Matt pick it out for you?"

"Yes," I managed to say, my voice small.

"How sweet," she said, her tone dripping with fake sympathy. "He always did like his women to make a statement. Though I must say, Sarah's style is much more classy, don't you think?" She pointed across the room where Matt was still talking with Sarah, completely forgetting I existed.

Something inside me cracked a little more.

"Excuse me," I whispered, turning away before the tears could fall.

I spent the next hour drifting through the party like a ghost, ignored by Matt, made fun of by the other guests. Every time I saw my husband, he was with Sarah or surrounded by other beautiful, perfect women who laughed at his jokes and touched his arm. Women who weren't me.

The emptiness in my chest grew bigger and bigger.

Forever later, Matt found me. His smile was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He smelled like expensive perfume that wasn't mine. "There you are. Stop hiding. It's time. Harrison's investor is here. Old man Waltham. He's been asking for you."

The blood drained from my face. My hands went cold. Waltham. The name was like a curse word. His reputation was dark and ugly. Stories of his 'private meetings' were well-known and terrifying. How he physically assault women and abuse them. 

"No," I said, barely a whisper. "Matt, not him. Anyone but him. Please."

I looked at him for a second to think where he was throwing his own wife.

His grip on my arm got painful. "Don't you dare. This is the whole point. He wants to have a drink. A private drink. In the Oak Room. Now."

My heart started racing, pounding so hard it hurt.

He started pulling me through the crowd. I dug my heels in, trying to resist. "I won't do it. I'm not going in there with him. Please."

His face twisted with anger. He leaned in close, his voice a poisonous whisper. "You will, or I swear to God, the life you know is over. Now walk, and smile, or I will drag you."

My legs felt like jelly. Everything inside me was screaming to run.

People turned to stare as he half-dragged me across the room, my heart pounding with terror. I caught Sarah's eyes for just a moment. She raised her champagne glass at me in a mocking way, a small smile on her lips.

A wave of humiliation washed over me so strong I thought I might throw up.

We stopped in front of a heavy, dark wooden door. He didn't knock. He just pushed it open and shoved me inside, making me stumble into the middle of the room.

The door clicked shut behind me.

The Oak Room was dim, lit only by one low light over a large round table. The air was thick with cigar smoke and expensive alcohol. And around that table sat not just old man Waltham, but four other men I sort of recognized. Matt's business friends. Predators.

My breath stopped. My whole body went cold.

They all stopped talking and turned to look at me. Their eyes, hungry and examining, traveled up and down my body in the red dress. Waltham, his face full of wrinkles and greed, gave a slow, wet smile that didn't reach his cold eyes.

Bile rose in my throat.

"Ah, the main attraction has finally arrived," he rasped. "Matt said you'd be eager to… perform for us."

The word echoed in my head. Perform. Perform. Perform. My knees went weak. I was trapped. The door was shut. Their eyes were everywhere. I took a stumbling step back, my shoulder hitting the solid wood door.

Matt's voice came from right behind the door, low and cold, just for me. "Go on, Stacy. Be a good wife. Entertain our guests."

My hands started shaking. The room felt like it was closing in. Five sets of eyes. Five men. One door. And my husband on the other side, selling me like I was nothing.

Something inside me shattered completely.

"Come now, sweetheart," Waltham said, patting to his lap."Don't be shy. Have a seat. Let's get to know each other."

The other men laughed, low and dangerous. As they looked at me with a lust. 

My vision blurred. My chest was so tight I couldn't breathe.