Chapter Three

Three years.

That’s how long I let Vincent ruin me, one stolen moment at a time.

It didn’t stay confined to our family home for long. Once we crossed that line, the hunger grew teeth. We became experts at lies, small ones at first, then bigger, more elaborate. He’d tell Laura he had a late client meeting. I’d say I was studying at the library or crashing at a friend’s. We’d meet in places that felt safe because they were anonymous, like cheap motels on the edge of town, his car in deserted parking lots, once even the back room of a bar during a weekday afternoon when no one was looking.

Every encounter left me higher and lower than the last.

The first year was raw need... we couldn’t get enough. He’d show up at my off-campus apartment with takeout as an excuse, and we’d devour each other instead of the food. He’d push me onto the kitchen counter, scatter my notebooks, hike my skirt up and take me hard and fast while I bit his shoulder to stay quiet. My roommate was usually in class, but the risk made everything sharper. He’d whisper filthy things against my skin, how tight I was, how much wetter I got for him than anyone else, how he couldn’t stop thinking about my taste. I’d come undone in minutes, clawing at his back, begging for more even as guilt gnawed at the edges.

He never stayed long afterward. Just a kiss on the forehead and a quiet “I’ll text you,” and he was gone. Back to Laura. Back to the life where he was the perfect fiancé.

I hated the emptiness that followed. I hated myself more for craving the next time.

Laura remained oblivious, glowing with wedding plans. She’d call me from dress fittings, send photos of venues, ask my opinion on colour schemes. “You’re my maid of honour, Lin. I need you there for everything.” Her voice was so full of joy it physically hurt. I’d stare at my phone after we hung up, Vincent’s latest text glowing on the screen, “thinking about your mouth right now.” I wondered if she never went through his phone.

I tried to stop more than once and the worst attempt was Alex.

I met him sophomore year in my Romantic Poetry seminar. Blond, easy smile, gentle hands. He brought me coffee when I was cramming for midterms, listened when I ranted about my professors, kissed me slow and sweet like he had all the time in the world. For four months, I let myself believe I could choose something clean.

Sex with Alex was careful. He asked if I was okay, checked in, held me afterward. It was everything a girl is supposed to want. It left me cold.

I’d lie there staring at the ceiling while he slept, my body unsatisfied, mind replaying Vincent’s rough grip, the way he’d growl my name like a claim. The guilt was different with Alex... because I was using him. Pretending.

Vincent found out, of course. Laura mentioned it casually over Easter brunch, “Linda’s seeing someone. Some literature guy. Cute, right?”

I saw the shift in Vincent’s eyes across the table. A flicker of a dark possessive look.

That night, he was waiting outside my apartment when Alex dropped me off after a movie. The second his taillights vanished, Vincent stepped out of the shadows. He didn’t speak at first. Just grabbed my wrist and pulled me around the corner of the building, pressing me hard against the brick.

“Who is he?” His voice was low and dangerous.

“None of your business.”

His thigh slid between mine, pinning me. “Everything about you is my business, Linda.”

I should have fought but instead, my weak body betrayed me, arching into him.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, mouth at my ear.

I couldn’t.

He fucked me right there... outside! Rough, as if he was punishing, one hand clamped over my mouth, the other bruising my hip. Rain had started, cold against my skin, but I barely felt it. I came harder than I ever had with Alex, tears mixing with the downpour.

After, he held me under the overhang, surprisingly gentle, murmuring apologies into my wet hair.

“I can’t share you,” he whispered.

“You don’t own me,” I murmured. But we both knew it was a lie.

Alex and I ended a week later. I told him I wasn’t ready for something serious. He looked devastated and I felt like a monster.

The second year brought darker risks. Hotels booked under fake names. Quick, desperate sessions in his car after “work events.” Once, during a family beach trip, he slipped into my room at 3 a.m. while everyone slept. The crash of waves covered my cries as he took me slow and deep on the floor, my bikini still half-on from the day before.

He started leaving marks, small bites on my inner thighs, faint bruises on my hips where no one would see. I’d trace them in the mirror and feel owned.

I left them too... scratches down his back the night before their engagement photos. He wore a turtleneck to the shoot. Laura laughed, called him suddenly modest. I smiled along, my stomach churning in guilt.

He told me once, in a hotel bed after we’d wrecked each other for hours, that he’d leave her.

“I just need time,” he said, fingers tracing lazy circles on my stomach. “We could be together. Really together.”

For one weak moment, I let myself imagine it. Then I remembered Laura’s face when she showed me the ring Vincent had proposed with. The way she’d cried happy tears and hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe.

I never brought it up again.

By the third year, the thrill had twisted into something addictive and ugly. We fought more, in harsh whispers after sex, accusations flung like weapons. He’d get jealous if I so much as laughed at a bartender’s joke. I’d throw Laura’s happiness in his face, call him a coward. The make-up sex was always brutal, intense, like we were trying to punish each other for the mess we’d made. But we still couldn’t stop.

Now the wedding is in two days!!

The house is a beautiful chaos with florists hauling in peonies and roses, caterers arguing over seating charts, Laura radiant in her final dress. Mom keeps tearing up while Dad claps Vincent on the back every chance he gets, calls him “son” with pride swelling in his voice. If only they all knew just the tip of it.

Everyone says how perfect they are. How lucky Laura is.

I’ve been helping all week, folding programs, arranging favours, smiling until my cheeks ache. Avoiding Vincent’s gaze across crowded rooms but still failing.

Yesterday, during the final dress fitting, Laura pulled me into the bridal suite.

“You’ve been distant,” she said, adjusting the lavender silk of my bridesmaid gown in the mirror. “Everything okay?”

I met her eyes in the reflection, same shape as mine, but softer and more trusting.

“Just stressed about finals,” I lied.

She hugged me from behind, chin on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here. I couldn’t do this without my little sister.”

I hugged her back and my stomach rumbled so bad that I felt like vomiting.

Tonight, the house finally quieted. Everyone collapsed after a long day of last-minute preparations. I’m in my childhood bedroom, the same one where this all began, staring at the bridesmaid dress hanging on the closet door like an accusation.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, it’s an unknown number.

I know who it is before I pick it up, and there’s just one message. “One last time?”

My chest caves in as I think about deleting it... blocking him forever, marching downstairs right now and telling Laura everything and then watching her perfect world shatter, knowing I’d deserve every ounce of her hatred.

I also think about saying yes and driving to whatever hotel he’s booked, letting him take me one final time, memorizing every touch, every ruthless thrust, storing it up like poison for the empty years ahead.

My hands tremble as I stare at the screen.

The house is silent. Laura’s soft breathing carries faintly from down the hall, she’s always been a heavy sleeper after wine.

I type before the better part of me can stop it.

“Where?”

The reply is instant. “You know where.”

It’s the guest bathroom... same one where I first fantasized about him years ago. Where that fantasy became a filthy, irreversible reality.

I set the phone down and look at myself in the mirror. I’m twenty-two now but still choosing him... still choosing the sin.

I smooth my hair with shaking fingers, open the bedroom door and step into the dark hallway.

I walk toward the light seeping under the guest bathroom door, heart pounding so loud I’m sure it will wake the house, knowing exactly what waits inside.

Knowing I won’t turn back... well, not tonight and maybe not ever.