Crack night

Nyx's pov

I stared into the mirror, hands trembling slightly as I adjusted the strap on my dress. My lipstick was fading. My eyes looked hollow. What the hell was I doing here? This place wasn’t just loud. It was alive — but not in a good way. It pulsed with sin. Like every corner of it had witnessed something wicked and clapped for it.

I splashed water on my face, took a breath, and walked out.That’s when I saw them. Two men. Ripped. Cold. Standing like statues outside the ladies’ room door. One stepped forward. “The Boss wants you.”

Excuse you!...

Just that!. No name, No smile. Just a sentence that twisted my stomach into a knot. I should’ve run.But I didn’t. Maybe because deep down… I knew this place was cursed from the moment I stepped in. I just didn’t know it was possessive. I followed them. Quietly. My heels echoing against the floor like countdowns. The hallway was long. Too quiet.

When they opened the door to the private room, I walked in—and he was there. He didn’t speak much. Just stared at me with those eyes — cold and commanding, and a drink in one hand. He looked Like something painted by devils who still dream of angels. He didn't smile, just one word.

“Strip.”

I froze.

I didn’t move. Not because I was shy — but because I was scared. I came here to disappear. He looked like someone who could help me do that — piece by piece. But still... it was my first time,Not with love. Not with care. With him.

I panicked. Just for a second. But before I could think twice — he was on me. He lunged forward like a storm and slammed me against the wall. His hands braced beside my head. His breath hit my cheek. And our eyes locked. He must’ve seen it. The fear.But he didn’t fucking care.

“You won’t forget tonight,” he whispered.

God.

His voice was rough and dangerous. Something in me broke. And something else… gave in. He looked at me like I was already his, another doll in his wicked little collection.

I kissed him.

I shouldn’t have. But I did. Because no one ever kissed me like that before. Because I wanted to feel something. Anything.And he made me feel like I was burning from the inside out.

His hands - rough, eager - grabbed my breasts like he owned them. Pain and pleasure blurred.

I let out a shaky breath and threaded my fingers through his hair. The other hand dug into the muscle of his arm like I was holding on for my dear life. The tension crackled. The kind you only feel when your heart’s fighting your body — and losing.

I locked my legs behind his waist, back pressed against the wall. My breath hitched as he shoved me onto the bed in a single motion, and then— Rip.

My dress was gone. He paused, His eyes scanned between my legs. Then he spat. “Shit… fucking virgin.”I looked away.

Shame crawled up my throat but he didn’t stop staring. His eyes softened for half a second… then hardened again. I didn’t want his pity.Or mercy. I wanted this over with so I pulled him down and kissed him again — harder this time. Messier. Because if I was going to regret this…I wanted to be the one to start it.

He didn’t wait after that. He entered me in one hard thrust.

I gasped - no, cried - and bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. It hurt. But something about it felt necessary. My body stretched,I moaned and clawed at the sheets, not sure if I wanted him to stop or never stop. I came undone beneath him - not from love or even lust - but from the sheer, intoxicating chaos he brought with every thrust. He just fucked me like he had something to prove.

And maybe he did. Maybe I was just a distraction, body, or just a moment. But for me…It was the end of something I couldn’t name.

When it was over, he pulled out, dressed like it was nothing, and tossed a bundle of cash on the bed.

“Treat your wounds,” he said. And left. Just like that .I stayed there for a while, staring at the money.

Eventually, I picked it up — not out of greed, but because I didn’t want to leave empty-handed.

when I got home around 2 a.m. The house was dark and Silent. No one waiting. No one wondering where I’d been.

I stood by the door for a minute, the scent of his cologne still clinging to my skin, and just… breathed. Whatever was left of the old me had died in that room. And I wasn’t sure who the hell I was now.

___

The hospital was cold but the silence that settled between the doctor’s words worse.

“Miss… you’re pregnant. Over a month along.” she announced.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. I just blinked—slowly, like that would change the sentence echoing in my ears.

Pregnant. At eighteen.

With a stranger’s child. what a great start.

The ride home was a blur. My fingers trembled around the brown envelope of test results, my heart weighed down like a sinking stone. I already knew how they’d react. This—this would only confirm the image they’d painted of me for years.

And I was right.

Father’s face froze. His jaw locked. Then came the slow exhale, the kind that carried finality. “You won’t return to school. I won’t finance a disgrace.”

My mother didn’t need words. Her disgust hung in the air like stench. “You left this house the night of our birthday,” she hissed, voice shaking. “Now you come back with a bastard? You’ve always been rotten, but now… now you’re filth.”

Even my sister. She—who's my twin said nothing. Her silence screamed the loudest.

And just like that, I was out. Not just out of the house—but out of their lives.

They moved within the week, like cowards running from shame. Another city. Another life. One that didn’t include me. No explanations. No forwarding address. Nothing at all.

I took what little I had—some cash stashed in an envelope, a half-packed duffel bag, and dreams reduced to dust-and found a place at the edge of the city. with cracked ceilings. Leaky pipes. A thin mattress on the floor. But it was mine. Mine and the little pulse growing inside me.

I waited, you know. I went back to that club more than once. Hoping. Searching. But he never came. Not once. Not even by mistake.

I didn’t even know his name.

The morning sickness was brutal. The loneliness, worse. But I found a job cleaning hotel rooms, scrubbing sins from sheets while hiding my own swelling belly beneath oversized sweaters.

No one knew. No one asked.

Months passed. Each day stretched like an eternity. I cried into pillows. I spoke to the baby in whispers. I begged her not to blame me for the mess.

And then one night—screaming, sweat, pain that split me open—I met her. My baby girl. The one thing this cruel world hadn’t stolen.

She cried thunder. Alive and Beautiful. Innocent.

And for the first time in months… I cried too.

Not out of shame.

But because something inside me finally decided to fight back.