Sorry Comes After Death

Harper’s POV

Mark storms past me without a word and snatches the glass off the counter with a grip a little too tight for comfort. I stay still in the chair, my eyes trained on him, as I watch every movement like a cornered animal watches its captor. He doesn't look at me though, at least now yet. Instead, he sinks into the armchair across from mine. Slowly, he leans forward and begins to gather the crumpled bills on the table.

I watch as his fingers move fast, mechanically, showing he's done this too many times before. He counts in complete silene, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Suddenly, his brow furrows and he looks toward me “This is short,” he mutters, and I can hear the accusation in his words already.

Short? That’s not possible. “It’s not,” I say quickly.

“Yes, it is,” he snaps, lifting his head now, his eyes sharp and narrow. He glares at me, waiting for me to explain.

“It’s the agreed amount. You heard them, the prices are dropping. I can’t force people to pay more than they want to.”

He exhales through his nose in that sharp, familiar way that means his temper is winding up, not down. Nothing I say right now will stop his anger, no matter how I try to calm this, it won't work.

“And I told you to offer them extras. Something to sweeten the deal.” He sighs and points to my body like it's that simple.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. His extras could go suck a dick. “They weren’t interested,” I lie, before shrugging my shoulder with forced nonchalance.

He scoffs, like I'm lying, and I guess I am.

After a long time working, selling my body, I hate the thought of oral, it became one of my most hated acts with strangers, so I refuse it now.

Across the room, Lesley lets herself melt into the sofa like she belongs there, like she’s earned that ease. She's someone I hate as well. I’ve always thought of her as something like a veteran in this business, if it even qualifies as one. She sells herself with a certain pride, as though she’s ascended above shame. I don’t know why she hovers around us. Pity, maybe. Entertainment. Or maybe she sees something of her younger self in me, and likes the reminder.

“You’re looking in the wrong places,” she says lazily.

My blood chills. No, no, please don’t... don’t you fucking dare. I shake my head fast and hard, urging her not to do this.

Mark turns toward her. “What does that mean?”

She smirks and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re still hoping to make money from the street? That’s old news. There are apps now. Daddies Kingdom, Daddies Underground, Sugar Babies, Domme Kingdom.”

Mark squints, confused. “Can you say that in simple fucking terms?”

She rolls her eyes like he's ridiculous for not knowing. “They’re platforms. Mostly kink-based. Most users are legit and they don’t even call it prostitution. As long as you don’t spell it out, they pretend it’s not there.”

“It’s not right,” I say quickly. I know full well it’s safer than what I’m doing now, but I can’t bring myself to cross that line. Not yet and maybe never.

“Oh, it is,” Lesley says, still smiling. “Those apps are all about connecting submissives, slaves, littles, whatever, with dominants, dommes, sugar daddies. There are two roles: the one who pays, and the one who gets paid.”

Mark lets out a bark of laughter. “People pay for that shit?”

Without missing a beat, Lesley pulls out her phone and tosses it into his lap. “Take a look. I’ve seen listings for a few grand for a date, even thirty thousand for a single night.”

That's all that was needed to grab his attention. His fingers tighten around the phone and his gaze is glued to the screen now.

I cross my arms over my chest, and begin to speak slowly, deliberately. "Mark. I am not comfortable meeting people online. At least on the street I can see them first, maybe get a look at their license plate. I could see what their car is, recognise their demeanor. Online though, it's a blind fucking guess."

Turning his head toward me, he stares me down. The look he gives me is thick with something like resentment, disappointment and greed all twisted together and aimed at me. “You’re in debt for over a hundred thousand dollars, Harper. I’m sick of waiting for pennies.”

My throat tightens and I bite my bottom lip until I taste blood. The debt isn’t mine, no matter how often Mark says it is. But the way he tells it, you’d think I’d been the one who handed the house over in flames.

It was the fire, and yes maybe some of it was my fault, but not everything.

He left a space heater running in the basement, one of those old, rattling things that should’ve been thrown out a decade ago. He said he was trying to keep the pipes from freezing. I told him repeatedly not to use it, that we needed a new one. But he did anyway, and when it caught, it took everything, walls, furniture, photo albums, even the damn cat.

When the insurance company came to inspect, they found the heater had melted down to a black husk in the wreckage. They said it was an unapproved device with faulty wiring, and the fire was caused by negligence. The payout was denied on the spot.

But Mark didn’t blame the heater, no, he blamed me.

“You left it plugged in,” he swore. “You were down there doing laundry. You must’ve forgotten.”

I hadn’t. I hadn’t even stepped into the basement that week, but it didn’t matter. His voice got louder and his eyes got wilder, then soon, he was telling everyone the same story. That it was my fault the house was gone and that I owed him.