Chapter Four

I wake up alone.

The bed is massive and empty, sheets cool on Damien’s side. Sunlight stabs through the blinds straight into my eyes. My body hurts in ways I didn’t expect — thighs burning from clamping around his head, core tender and swollen from how many times he made me come, nipples sensitive and slightly bruised from his mouth, wrists pink where the silk tie dug in. Every small movement sends a sharp reminder: his tongue relentless on my clit, his fingers curling inside me, his voice growling come for me, kitten, don’t hold back while I shatter on his face.

But he’s gone.

No warm body beside me. No low “morning, little one” against my hair.

Just silence.

Panic hits first. Did he regret it? Did he wake up, look at me sleeping, and decide I was too much trouble? Too young? Too messy? Too me?

Then I see it: a folded piece of paper on the nightstand.

I snatch it.

His handwriting

Urgent issue at the casino. Had to handle it. Car booked — downstairs in 10 minutes. Text when you’re home safe. Tonight. At the same time. My office.

— D

No “sorry I left.” No “miss you already.” No, “you were perfect.” Just instructions. Like I’m a task he checked off.

My chest caves.

I crumple the note. Throw it across the room. It flutters uselessly to the floor.

I pull on the slip dress — wrinkled, no underwear — and glance at the mirror. My reflection looks wrecked: hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes red-rimmed from crying last night, faint marks on my neck from his teeth. I look like a girl who got used and discarded.

I feel like one.

I grab my tote, slip out the back door — same service entrance, same shadows. The black SUV is waiting, tinted windows, driver in a suit who nods once and doesn’t speak. I slide in, slam the door harder than necessary.

The car pulls away smoothly.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes.

A bank notification.

Deposit: $10,000 from Damien Cross

My stomach plummets.

I stare at the screen. My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the phone.

I open the app. Confirm. It’s real.

I call him.

Voicemail.

I call again.

Voicemail.

I scream into the silence. Then I text my fingers, slamming the screen.

What the fuck is $10k? You think you can make me come until I cry, then pay me like I’m your whore? I’m not for sale, Damien. Never was.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear.

Then:

Not payment. Support. For you. For Victor. For Sophie’s school. For your mom’s bills. I’ve been sending smaller amounts for months — same as Emily. You never noticed. This was to cover the extortion and give you breathing room. I’m in a meeting. We’ll talk tonight.

I laugh — bitter, broken, tears burning my eyes.

Months?

I scroll back through my bank history. There it is — small deposits every few weeks. $200 here. $500 there. I always thought I’d miscounted tips or forgotten a shift. I never questioned it because I didn’t want to believe someone was quietly taking care of me.

Now I can’t unsee it.

And it feels like a cage.

I text back — shaking so hard, autocorrect can’t keep up.

Fuck your support. Fuck your money. I don’t want it. I don’t want YOU if this is what it comes with.

I block him.

Turn the phone off.

Throw it into my tote, as it burned me.

The car pulls up outside my building.

I pay the driver with cash I shouldn’t have to spend, climb the stairs, and open the apartment door.

Sophie’s at the kitchen table, volcano half-built, eyes bright when she sees me.

“Leah! You’re back!”

“Hey, Soph.” My voice cracks. I force a smile. Hug her so tight she squeaks. “Let’s finish this thing.”

We mix baking soda and vinegar. Red food coloring. I help her tape the papier-mache cone. Mom’s already at work—double shift again. The apartment smells like coffee and laundry detergent and the faint mildew that never quite goes away.

Victor texts again.

Got your money. Nice bump. Tell your rich boyfriend thanks. See you soon, kid.

I feel sick.

Victor Hayes. My father. The man who used to carry me on his shoulders at the beach when I was little, who taught me how to change a tire, who promised he’d build us a house with a pool one day. The same man who gambled away Mom’s wedding ring when I was twelve, who screamed at her until she cried, who left for good when Sophie was four. Who still calls me “baby girl,” as I owe him something for the few good memories he left behind.

He doesn’t know about Damien. Not really. But he smells money, and Victor always follows the scent.

I stare at the message.

Feel dirty.

Feel used.

Feel angry — at Victor. At myself. At Damien.

I finish the volcano. Kiss Sophie’s head. Tell her I love her.

Then I lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the shower, and cry until the water runs cold.