Nights I sold to him のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

Three weeks in and I’m starting to forget what my own bed feels like.I still keep my little apartment with Grandma, but most nights I end up at Noah’s penthouse. It just happens. I go over after my cleaning shift, tell myself I’ll leave by midnight, and then I wake up with his arm around me and city lights still glowing outside the windows.Grandma’s doing better. A lot better. The new treatment worked fast color back in her cheeks, she’s even baking again. She keeps saying “some kind soul paid for it all” and I smile and nod, feeling the lie sit heavy in my stomach.Tonight I’m later than usual. The diner was busy and my feet hurt. When the private elevator opens, Noah’s on the couch in sweatpants and a t-shirt, laptop closed beside him. He looks up and smiles small, but real.“You’re late.”“Rough shift.” I drop my bag and kick off my shoes. “Some guy left a two-dollar tip on a fifty-dollar bill and told me to smile more.”Noah’s face darkens. He stands, walks over, and pulls me in

I’m starting to leave things at his place. A hair tie on the bathroom counter. My cheap strawberry shampoo in his shower. One of my old hoodies folded on the chair because I got cold one night and he gave me his, so I left mine behind. Little pieces of me are spreading through his big, clean penthouse like I belong here.I keep telling myself I don’t.It’s a Thursday night. I finished cleaning early and came straight over. Noah opens the door still in his work shirt, tie loose, looking tired but happy to see me. He kisses me hello like it’s the most normal thing in the world.We eat pizza on the couch, legs tangled, some cooking show on in the background. He laughs at something I say about a customer at the diner, and the sound makes my stomach flip.After, we take a long shower together. Water hot, steam everywhere. His hands slide over my wet skin, soaping my back, then my front. He spends extra time on my breasts—always does—thumbs circling until I’m leaning against the tile, breat

:I can’t keep the phone quiet anymore.The messages come faster now. Every few hours. New pictures. Closer ones.One from inside the elevator my back against the wall, Noah’s hand under my shirt, my head tipped back, eyes closed. You can’t see much, but you can tell what’s happening.Another from the penthouse window blurry, taken from across the street with a long lens. Just shadows, but it’s us on the couch, me straddling him, his hands on my hips.Each one comes with words that cut deeper.Whore.Gold-digger.He’ll get tired of you soon.I delete them all, block the numbers, but new ones come.I stop sleeping.Noah notices. Of course he does.“What’s going on, Lila?” he asks one morning over coffee. His voice is gentle, but his eyes are worried.“Nothing. Just stress.”He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. But he lets it go.That afternoon I’m at Grandma’s. She’s in the kitchen making her famous apple pie—the one she hasn’t had energy for in years. The smell fills the whole apartment

It’s been five days since I sent the text.Five days of silence from him.I keep checking my phone like an idiot. Every buzz makes my heart jump—then crash when it’s just Jess or a bill reminder.Grandma doesn’t ask about him anymore. She just makes sure I eat, leaves tea by my bed, hugs me when I cry for no reason.I quit the diner job. Couldn’t face the stares, the whispers.The cleaning company let me go too—said it was a “conflict of interest” now that everyone knows I was sleeping with the boss.I’m back to nothing.But Grandma’s medicine is paid for months ahead.That’s something.Most nights I lie awake in my old room, staring at the ceiling. The bed feels too big. Too cold.I miss his arms around me.I miss the way he’d kiss my shoulder when he thought I was asleep.I miss how safe I felt.I hate myself for missing it.On the sixth day, I go to his penthouse.I don’t know why. I tell myself it’s to get my things—the hoodie, the shampoo, the sketchbook I left on his nightstand.