Chapter 17: The End

~Maya~

It’s been three weeks since Kayla left. After she witnessed us having rough sex. She came back and packed her things.

She just packed her things in cold, vicious silence, like I wasn’t even there, like she was trying to erase me from her life one sweatshirt at a time.

She didn’t even look at me when she left. Just closed the door behind her like it wasn’t the same door I used to knock on before dragging her to class, like it wasn’t the door I used to fall asleep behind, thinking she was my best friend.

She was. Until her dad made me his.

And now?

I don’t think about her.

Not when his hands are between my legs before I’m even fully awake. Not when he makes me open my mouth at the breakfast table like a good girl so he can slide his cock past my lips while his coffee brews.

Not when he orders for me at dinner, buys me clothes I’m not allowed to wear in public, fucks me in every room of this house until I forget what it was like to not smell like him. Not when he calls me his baby. Not when he tells me I look prettiest with his cum running down my thighs.

I don’t sleep in the guest room anymore.

That bed is cold now.

Empty.

Not because no one uses it. No. It’s still made. Still neat. Still waiting.

But now, there’s a camera.

Right there on the dresser. Red light always blinking. Always on.

Because sometimes? Dean likes to bend me over that bed and press my face into the same pillow Kayla used to sleep on. He fucks me there when he’s feeling particularly cruel.

When he wants me to cry. When he wants me to remember how far gone I am. He ties my hands. He chokes me. He fucks me until I forget my own name, and then he plays the footage back on his laptop with a glass of scotch in one hand and my hair in the other.

And when I ask him why?

He just says, “In case she comes back. In case she needs to see what happens to the girl who stay.”

I don’t wear panties anymore.

I’m not allowed. Not to bed. Not to the grocery store. Not even to those fancy hotels he takes me to every weekend. I sit across from him at candlelit tables, dripping wet under the dress he picked, and when the waiter turns away and I gasp because his fingers are already pushing inside me again, he just smirks and says, “Keep quiet, kitten. Or I’ll make you stand up and show them how well you take my fingers.”

And I do.

Every time.

I come on command now.

I moan into his shoulder when we dance. I suck him under the table. I keep his cum in me for hours because he told me it helps the baby grow strong.

Because yeah.

The test was positive.

Two pink lines. No delay. No confusion. I stared at it for a full hour, naked on the bathroom floor, shaking like my soul was leaving my body. I didn’t know if I should cry or laugh or throw up.

But when I showed him—when I crawled into his lap with the test clutched in both hands, whispering, “She’s going to hate me forever”—he didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask who.

He just kissed me.

Tangled his fingers in my curls.

Pressed his mouth to mine like he was proud.

And he said, “Good. Let her.”

Now I wear his shirts and no underwear.

I take naps with his hand on my belly.

I call him Daddy in front of the neighbors and smile when they don’t know what to say.

I kiss his ring. I clean his cock with my tongue after he fucks me. I get on my knees and thank him for making me into something useful. Something his.

The guest room stays empty.

The master bedroom belongs to me now.

And the camera?

Still recording.

Still waiting.

Still ready for the day Kayla decides to come back—and see exactly what her daddy turned me into.