Silent Debt

(Mara’s POV)

 My body feels like it’s been run through fire and ice, welts throbbing across my back and thighs, nipples still tender from the clamps, clit swollen and hypersensitive, inner thighs sticky from my release. Every step pulls at the soreness between my legs.

I turn on the bath. Hot water rushes out, steam rising in thick clouds. I pour in the unscented oil from the shelf, I need heat and I need to drown the ache.

I sink into the tub slowly. Water scalds at first, then soothes. I lean back, let it cover my shoulders, close my eyes. The heat seeps into bruised muscles, loosening knots I didn’t know I had. I cup handfuls over my chest, let it run down my stomach, between my thighs. It stings the welts but dulls the deeper ache.

I stay until the water cools, skin pink and pruned. When I finally stand, the mirror is fogged. I wipe a streak clear, my reflection looks haunted: red-rimmed eyes, swollen lips, faint marks blooming across my breasts and thighs. I look like someone who’s been broken and is still being reshaped.

I wrap a thick towel around my chest, and step back into the room.

The wardrobe is open. I choose a long black silk robe, soft against abused skin. It brushes my welts like a whisper. 

I fall onto the bed, pull the pillow over my face, and let the sobs come, muffled, ugly, unstoppable. The fabric smells faintly of him. I hate it and I hate how my body keeps betraying me. 

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I lift the pillow, wipe my face, and open it.

Nora.

A long message, timestamped ten minutes ago:

“He’s been moved to a private pediatric ward full suite and a private dedicated nurse assigned to him. All outstanding bills cleared, including the next three months of the experimental protocol. Dr. Vargas says his counts are stabilizing faster than expected. Fever’s down again. He’s sleeping now but kept asking for you. Call when you can. I’m here.”

Attached: a video.

I tap play.

Liam in a bright, spacious room,big window, stuffed animals on the shelf, Spider-Man poster on the wall. He’s propped on pillows, oxygen mask off for the moment, several lines still taped to his chest and one on his cheek. He’s coloring, slow strokes, tongue between his teeth in concentration. The nurse adjusts his blanket. He looks up at the camera, smiles weakly.

“Hi Mommy. I drew you a picture. Come back soon.”

The video ends.

I replay it twice. Tears come again differently this time. Relief. Love is so sharp it hurts.

I set the phone down, curl around it, and let myself cry until my eyes burn.

Exactly an hour later, the keypad beeps.

The same black-uniformed woman steps in.

“Mr. Kane is waiting for dinner, Ms. Reed.”

I stand on unsteady legs, smooth the robe, follow her.

(Sebastian’s POV)

The dining room is quiet, long ebony table, low chandelier casting warm light over crystal and silver. I sit at the head, already poured a glass of Barolo. The staff has set two places. 

She enters barefoot, black silk robe brushing her knees, hair still damp from the bath. Her eyes are red, cheeks flushed, posture rigid like she’s bracing for another blow.

She stops at the chair opposite me.

“Sit.”

She obeys slowly, carefully lowering herself. 

The welts must still sting; she winces faintly as her thighs meet the seat.

I watch her stare at the plate of; Beef carpaccio with arugula, shaved parmesan, capers, and truffle oil like it was a threat.

“Eat.”

She picks up the fork with trembling fingers. The only sounds are the soft clink of silver, the faint scrape of tines, her careful chewing. She doesn’t speak or look at me. 

Silence stretches.

Halfway through my own meal, she sets her fork down.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Barely audible.

I pause, glass halfway to my lips.

“For Liam.”

I study her swollen eyes, bruised lips, the faint red marks peeking at the robe’s neckline. 

She’s thanking me for the very thing I used to chain her here.

“You earned it,” I say evenly.

I finish the wine, set the glass down and stand to leave.

She flinches at the sound of my chair.

I pick up my jacket from the back of the seat, drape it over my arm.

“I have an appointment,” I tell her. “Finish your meal. The staff will clear it.”

I stride past her, out of the dining room, through the foyer, into the private elevator.

Down to the garage.

The driver is waiting. Black SUV this time. 

“Ms. Elena’s residence,” I say.

He nods, pulls out.

I lean back, close my eyes. My cock is still hard, aching from the way she clenched around my fingers, from the way she shattered when I finally allowed it.

Elena will take the edge off. She's one of my mistresses who knows how to make me feel good.

But as the city lights streak past, I know the truth.

It won’t be enough.

Nothing is enough anymore.

Not when Mara’s sobs still echo in my head.

Not when I can still taste her surrender.