All Chapters of Dirty (short stories): Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Tony sat in the corner of Luca’s bedroom, wrists bound to the chair with thick black rope, blood already crusting on his split lip and swollen eye from the earlier beating. His breathing was shallow and ragged, his eyes darting between the bed and the floor, shame and fear twisting his face into something small and broken, the guards had dragged him in minutes earlier, dumped him there like trash, and left without a word. Now he was forced to watch, helpless, as the consequences of every choice he had ever made unfolded in front of him. Isabella stood naked in front of Luca, her chest heaving, her thighs still slick from their earlier fucking, her red silk gown lay crumpled on the floor, her eyes were red, but the tears had dried, what remained was pure, cold fury, the kind that had been building for weeks, months, years, every time Tony gambled away their money, every time he lied to her face, every time he made her feel like she was the one who had to fix his messes. She turne

After that first night on the couch, Amara and David didn’t turn it into some big dramatic thing the next morning. They still met in the hallway like always, he with his usual “Morning, troublemaker,” she with her fake glare and “Morning, thief”, but now there was this new, quiet heat behind the words. A quick glance that lasted half a second too long. A small, knowing smile neither of them could quite hide, they went to work separately, came home separately. It started with small knocks, his at 8:17 p.m. one Tuesday with a bottle of cheap red wine and two mismatched cups, claiming he “needed help finishing it before it went bad.” She let him in, poured, and they sat on her couch talking about the same nonsense they always did: the landlord’s latest lazy repair job, the neighbor upstairs who stomped like he was auditioning for a tap-dance troop, how the riders outside were getting bolder every week. The wine loosened their laughter, softened the edges of the jokes, until sh

Elara Voss had spent her entire nineteen years inside a gilded cage. Her father, Victor Voss, owned half the commercial real estate in the city, towers, malls, hotels and he guarded his only daughter like she was the last diamond in his vault. No sleepovers, no parties without security, no boyfriends. University was supposed to be her first taste of freedom. Instead, it came with a shadow. On her first day at the private international university downtown, her father’s black Range Rover pulled up to the gates. Two men stepped out with her: one was her usual driver, the other was new. He was striking. Six-foot-two, broad shouldered but lean in the way athletes are, muscle without bulk, strength without exaggeration. Warm olive skin that caught the sun like polished bronze, sharp jawline softened by a neatly trimmed beard, high cheekbones, and piercing hazel eyes. His black suit fit him perfectly tailored, expensive, understated. When he removed his sunglasses, the full effect

Elara Voss had never been patient. growing up with everything handed to her on a silver platter had taught her one thing: if she wanted something, she took it and right now, she wanted Matteo Valenti more than she’d ever wanted anything. He’d been her shadow for three weeks. Three weeks of stolen glances, accidental brushes, quiet moments where the air between them felt thick enough to choke on. He stayed professional, always three steps behind, always scanning, always silent unless spoken to, but she saw the cracks: the way his jaw tightened when she leaned too close in the car, the way his eyes lingered on her legs when she crossed them in her short skirts, the way his breathing changed when she “accidentally” touched his arm. She decided to stop playing. It was Thursday afternoon, her lectures ended early, the campus was quiet, most students gone for the weekend already. She texted him from the empty hallway outside the auditorium: **Elara:** Meet me in the back lec

Noah Callahan was nineteen and still believed love happened the way it did in the books he read in secret. He lived in a small apartment above his aunt’s bakery in a quiet coastal town two hours from the city. His parents had died when he was twelve; since then it had been just him, and Aunt Mara, flour-dusted mornings, and the soft click of the register. He worked the counter, delivered bread to local cafés, studied online for a literature degree he wasn’t sure he’d ever finish. He didn’t drink, didn’t party, didn’t date, not because he was holy, he just hadn’t met anyone who made the world feel bigger than the four walls he knew. Until the night he saw her. It was late. Aunt Mara had gone to bed early with a migraine. Noah was alone in the living room, laptop open, headphones on, scrolling through a late-night YouTube rabbit hole that had somehow landed on a channel called “VividVixen.” He wasn’t looking for p**n. He’d clicked a “reaction” video about “the most beautiful p