Fuck my life

IVY

The resounding slap comes out of nowhere.

Aunt Linda’s hand cracks across my face, sending me stumbling into the bookshelf. My cheek explodes with heat.

“You SLUT!”

My moans still echo in the living room from her phone screen. Theodore, my ex-boyfriend, shared a video of our private moment to the world barely hours ago.

“Aunt Linda, I swear I didn’t know he was recording…”

“I don’t care!” She shoves the phone in my face. “Look at you! Just like your mother, spreading your legs for any man who gives you attention!”

Her words cut through me, even deeper than the slap.

“Don’t talk about my mother…”

“Your mother was a whore who died in some man’s bed! Tell me, Ivy, did you enjoy fucking that loser while the man who’s been paying for your whole life waited for you?”

My stomach drops. I frown at her.

“What?”

She throws her head back in a bitter laugh.

“What do you mean what?”

I stagger forward, trying to find my feet.

“What are you talking about? I work hard for this family, I save money for my tuition after everything. No one…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She chuckles sourly.

“You thought your three little jobs were taking care of this family? Your paychecks can’t even cover the electricity bill!”

I turn to Uncle Marcus, my mother’s younger brother. He won’t look at me.

“Uncle Marcus?” My voice cracks. “What is she talking about?”

He says nothing.

“Harold Grant,” Aunt Linda spits the words with the same fiery rage in her eyes. “That’s who’s been paying for everything. This house. The bills. Gabriel’s school. Your art degree.”

The room suddenly begins to spin around my head.

“Harold Grant has been funding your entire existence for THREE YEARS!”

“Why would he?”

“Because you were going to MARRY him!”

The words don’t make sense.

I had seen him on different occasions over the years. He would often show up at the restaurants and bars I worked, at the preschool I taught art, in my own school. I remember seeing him on several walks back home. All this while, I had thought he was a mere stalker. I was wrong.

So wrong.

I can’t breathe.

“We had an arrangement! He’s fifty-eight, he’s a CEO, he’s rich, and he wanted you. All we had to do was wait until you turned twenty. All you had to do was keep your legs closed!”

Horror crawls up my throat. “You were going to sell me?”

“We were saving you! After your whore mother died and left you with nothing. Harold Grant offered to give you a life of luxury. And all he asked was that you become his wife when you came of age!”

“I never agreed to that!”

“You didn’t have to agree! You’re an orphan living under our roof—”

“I worked for it!”

“You worked for nothing! Everything you have belongs to Harold Grant! And you just threw it away to fuck some loser who put your video on the internet!”

I can’t believe this.

“Aunt Linda, uncle Marcus, please—”

“Don’t bother,” Aunt Linda snaps. “It was his idea.”

I stare at my uncle, the man who was supposed to protect me.

He finally looks up. “Your mother left you with nothing, Ivy. We had to find a way to take care of you.”

“By selling me like cattle?”

“By securing your future.”

The doorbell rings before I can utter another word.

Uncle Marcus heads for the door, and when he opens it, my blood goes cold.

His voice rings in my ears.

Where is she?”

Harold Grant.

Aunt Linda’s hand clamps around my arm. “You’re going to apologize. You’re going to beg for his forgiveness. You’re going to fix this.”

“I’m not—”

“You will, or I will throw you out on the street with nothing!”

“Linda.” Harold’s voice cuts through as he appears, two bodyguards surrounding him. “Let her go.”

She releases me instantly.

Harold Grant is fifty-eight. Three-time divorcé. CEO of Grant Corporations. Standing before me in a suit that probably costs more than my tuition.

In his hand, he holds his phone. Playing my sex tape.

“Ivy. I’ve been very patient with you.”

I can’t speak.

“I’ve invested considerable resources into you and your family. Paid for your education. Your housing. Your every need.” He taps the screen, pausing on my face.

I flinch at the sight. My mouth is open, head thrown back.

“And this is how you repay my generosity?”

Something inside me cracks.

Maybe it’s seeing my violation used as a weapon.

Maybe it’s Aunt Linda cowering at his feet.

Maybe it’s Uncle Marcus’s silence.

Maybe I just have nothing left to lose.

“You better cut off your old perverted dick and shove it up your ass,” I hear myself say, “because there’s NO WAY IN HELL I’m marrying you!”

He blinks before raising his brow.

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t ask for your money! I worked! I worked three jobs thinking I was taking care of my family, and you were just buying me like property!”

“How dare you!” Aunt Linda lunges at me, but Harold stops her.

“No. Let her continue. Let her tell me exactly how ungrateful she is.”

“I’m not ungrateful, I’m angry! You can’t buy a person! I never agreed to this!”

“You didn’t have to agree. You’re twenty years old now, Ivy. Of legal age. I was prepared to make you my wife, to give you everything.” He gestures at the phone. “But clearly, you’re not worth the investment.”

For one desperate second, I feel relief.

Then his expression hardens.

“Our arrangement is terminated. Effective immediately.”

Aunt Linda gasps. “NO! Mr. Grant, please—”

“You will return every dime I’ve spent on you and your family. Every. Single. Cent.”

The room starts to spin around me. I can feel the winter wind slowly knock me off my feet.

Three days to Christmas, and this is what the universe gives to me.

“And if you can’t, I’ll seize every property your uncle owns. The house. The car. Everything.”

“Please…”

“Your college funding is terminated. You can forget about your art degree.”

My art degree. My mom’s dream. The only piece of her I had left is gone.

Whatever aunt Linda had used my money for…it was all gone.

“Next time you want to play the victim, remember you did this to yourself.” He walks out.

The silence lasts three seconds.

Then Aunt Linda screams.

“You stupid girl!” She’s on me, shoving me backward. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!”

She storms to my room, ripping my clothes off hangers, hurling them into the hallway.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

My artwork comes down next. Paintings. Sketches of Mom. She tears them, crumples them, throws them at my feet.

“Please, I don’t have anywhere to go—”

“You’ve ruined us! You couldn’t even keep your legs closed for a few more months!”

She hurls my duffel bag at me. It slams into my chest.

“You don’t come back here until you’ve fixed this! Not ever!”

“You’re just like your whore mother, except at least she had the decency to DIE before she could ruin more lives!”

I turn to Uncle Marcus one last time with tears streaming down my face. If anyone can help me, at least he can. He will. He’s my dead mother’s only surviving relative. The only family I have.

“Uncle Marcus. Please.”

He finally meets my eyes.

“I’m just glad your mother isn’t here to see what you’ve become.”

The door slams in my face.

I stand there on the porch, surrounded by my scattered belongings.

This is real.

I stood up for myself.

And now I have nothing.

My phone rings.

I take it out of my pocket to find my best friend’s name on my screen.

Sierra.

I swallow hard before I answer.

“Ivy? Oh my God, I saw the video, are you okay?”

“Can I stay with you?” The words tumble out of my mouth. “My aunt kicked me out. I don’t have anywhere to go—”

“Yes. Obviously yes. Where are you?”

It then occurs to me. Shit.

“You’re with your dad in Pristine, aren’t you?”

“That doesn’t matter. I’m sending you money right now. Book the next flight. Text me when you land. You’re coming here, okay?”

“Sierra, I can’t—”

“You can and you will. You’re my best friend. Get on a plane.”

Eight hours, and one long flight later, I’m standing in front of a mansion.

White stone. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Circular driveway with a fountain.

I pull out my phone: “Code is 4572! Let yourself in—no one’s home. I’ll be running late.”

I put in the code and the door slides open.

Everything about this house feels expensive, almost untouched. The Christmas decorations all over the house; the trees, the garlands, the little gold bells make my stomach turn.

I leave my bags by the entrance and climb the spiral staircase.

There are no pictures on the walls, no symbol of life.

At the top of the staircase is a long corridor. All doors there are closed, except from one.

Sounds echo from inside to the main hall.

Moans, screams that send shivers down my spine. They sound familiar…too familiar.

Then I hear MY voice: “Fuck me, baby! Yes, harder!”

My blood turns to ice as my eyes widen.

Someone is watching my sex tape!

That video destroyed my entire life today. And someone in this house is watching it like it’s entertainment.

“Look at you, Ivy, creaming all over my huge dick.” Theodore’s voice grates my ears.

I stomp toward the open door.

“Sierra, if you think this is funny—”

I reach the doorway.

And freeze.

It’s not Sierra.

It’s HIM.

With long silver hair that flows past his shoulders, long legs spread in a leather chair, and his tattooed fingers wrapped around the biggest, most veiny cock I’ve ever seen.

His eyes meet mine.

His are the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen with pupils blown wide, filled with sin and heat that rushes up my spine, but not before starting a fire between my legs.

His sharp jaw covered in silver stubble, and his lips…they are as red as blood.

Confusion flickers in his sinful eyes, then recognition.

He glances at the TV—where Theodore fucks me from behind—then back at me.

I should run.

But I can’t move.

Because my nipples are hard as pebbles through my tank top.

Because my clit is throbbing.

Because some sick part of me wants to watch him finish.

Wants that cock buried inside me instead.

What the hell is wrong with me?​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​