Wet Confessions のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 81 - チャプター 90

The Temptation I wasn’t supposed to take the stage that night. The schedule said off, but Sasha called in sick, and I could use the extra cash. So I pulled on the red dress the one slit high enough to cause trouble and walked into The Velvet Hour like it owed me something. That’s when I saw them. They were tucked into the corner booth where shadows gather, but even from across the room, I could feel them. She was stunning in a black wrap dress, diamonds at her throat, lips painted the kind of red that ruins men. He sat beside her, not across a quiet claim one hand resting on her thigh, thumb tracing idle circles over silk. They weren’t like the others. Couples usually came here for spectacle. To shock themselves into feeling something again. But these two they were already dangerous. The air between them was heavy, charged, and the way they both looked at me made my skin hum. When my set started, I tried to avoid their eyes. Tried to focus on the faceless crowd. But I kept

The air inside Grandmother’s estate was thick with dust and memories, a faint scent of lavender mingling with the aged wood and worn fabric. I pulled open a heavy, creaking drawer in the attic, the dim light barely illuminating the cluttered room. Old photographs spilled onto the floor, yellowed letters tied with faded ribbons, and trinkets from a lifetime I never truly knew. Then, my fingers brushed against something unexpected a leather-bound diary, its cover soft but worn, edges frayed like it had been handled many times before. I hesitated, then opened it, the faint scent of old paper rising to meet me. The first page was a delicate scrawl in elegant handwriting. My grandmother’s voice intimate and raw spilled out in ink. The diary wasn’t just a journal. It was a secret map to a hidden life: whispered names, stolen moments, forbidden desires. One passage caught my breath: “He is my closest friend, yet the tension between us burns brighter than any flame I have known. If the w

I should start by saying I hate him. Blake Vance. The man who’s stolen clients from under me, outbid me just to watch me lose, and turned every boardroom we’ve ever shared into a battlefield. I hate the way he always walks in like he owns the air, the floor, the conversation. I hate that I can read a dozen strategies in the set of his jaw, and not one of them ever works in my favor. But mostly, I hate the truth. The truth is, every time we’ve clashed across a glossy conference table, a part of me has wondered what it would feel like if he stopped talking long enough to use that mouth for something else. Every headline about our rivalry, every tense handshake in front of the cameras, every cutting remark he’s ever tossed my way they’ve all fed a hunger I’ve tried to starve. Until the night I walked into his penthouse. Until I realized that whatever war we’ve been fighting isn’t about market share or leverage. It’s about power. His. Mine. And what happens when I l

I never believed a mirror could ruin me. I thought the worst part would be his hands, or the way my own lips betrayed me with that quiet, trembling yes. I thought it would be the heat of his body pressed against mine, the weight of what we weren’t supposed to be doing. But no. The worst part was the mirror. It didn’t blink. It didn’t forgive. It showed me the girl I swore I wasn’t the one flushed and open, eyes glazed with hunger, begging without words. And once I saw her once I saw me I couldn’t pretend anymore. That was the night I stopped being innocent. That was the night the mirror stole my soul. The Reflection Dear diary, I told myself I wouldn’t write this. But it’s burning in me, crawling under my skin like a fever. Maybe if I confess it to these pages, it will loosen its grip. Maybe. It started the night I slipped into his room. Or maybe he slipped into mine I don’t even know anymore, because the memory is blurred at the edges, smeared with desire. All I

I shouldn’t even be writing this. If anyone ever found out I’d lose everything. But sometimes, the guilt isn’t enough to drown out the memory. Sometimes, telling it admitting it makes the shame a little sweeter. It started because of him. My professor. Everyone else thought he was brilliant, a genius, someone to admire. But in class, he made me feel small. Every word was a criticism. Every grade felt like a punishment. He spoke to me like I was nothing more than another essay to mark with red ink. So one night, after another lecture where he told me I’d “never make it at this pace,” I snapped. I decided I didn’t need his help. I didn’t need him. I hired a tutor. I thought it would be harmless. Just another student, maybe a graduate assistant. Someone quiet. Someone who would slip into the library, help me with notes, and disappear. But when I opened my door that night it was him. Not my professor. His son. I didn’t know it at first. All I saw was a smirk, a lazy c