Keeper, Not Lover
More jewels and gowns than I could count.
Every night he needed me, I’d put on whatever lacy thing he picked out. We’d have sex.
Five years. 999 times.
There were moments—his sweat dripping on my forehead, his soft breaths inside me, the way he’d look at me—when I let myself dream he loved me.
Then the video dropped. Him. On the street. Kissing another woman.
I knew the truth. He was my keeper, not my lover.
Everyone laughed. They couldn't wait to see me lose my mind, begging him to keep me.