The meeting

The meeting
~ Camilla

The sun wasn’t just bright; it was a judgmental bastard, spotlighting every dust mote dancing in the air and every single mistake I’d made last night. 9:00 AM. The other side of the bed was cold and untouched. Of course it was. Stephano didn’t linger. He conquered, he came, he left for his billion-dollar day, leaving me here in the wreckage. I tried to sit up, and my body screamed in a chorus of protests. A sharp ache in my lower back, a deep, throbbing soreness between my legs, and a specific, tender bruise on my hip from where he’d held me down against the living room couch. The memories crashed over me. The sting of the silk cushions against my cheek, the brutal, perfect rhythm of his hips slamming into me from behind, the raw, guttural sounds he made when he finished. And the worst part, the truly sickening part that made my stomach clench with self-loathing? A hot, slick pulse of remembrance low in my belly. I enjoyed it, every damn time. What kind of a dick fool was I?

I wrapped the thousand-thread-count sheet around me like a shroud, trying to smother the heat coming off my own skin. I squeezed my eyes shut. Don't. Don't think about it. Don't think about his mouth… No! I mentally screamed, slamming a door in my mind. That memory, his dark head between my thighs, his skilled, relentless tongue, that one was forbidden. If I let that one in, I was done for.

Alex. I latched onto his name like a life raft. I have to see Alex today. We’re running away. The thought was a shot of pure, cold adrenaline. It was insane. Reckless. Stephano owned the building, the security, the whole damn city. 

It felt like, like he’d find me. He’d tear the world apart to find what was his. But I can’t marry him. I can’t sign those papers in two days and become his legal property. I can’t.

Then, the traitorous whisper, slithering up from the part of me that was still damp and aching: But you’ll miss it. You’ll miss the way he fills you up, the way he makes you forget your own name. No one has ever made you feel like that.

A wave of guilt so intense it felt like nausea. It wasn’t just that I’d enjoyed it; it was that I’d craved it, even as I hated him. My body was a separate, treacherous entity with its own stupid, primal agenda. Okay, let’s be real, Camilla, I argued with myself, pushing back against the tide of sensation. Yes, the man is technically gifted. He fucks like a god. But he’s also an emotionally sterile, narcissistic CEO who sees you as a walking womb and a warm hole. You cannot build a life on good dick. You just can’t.

The logic was sound. But then I felt the ghost of his final, deep thrust from the 3 AM session, the one where he’d pinned my wrists to the headboard and driven into me until I sobbed his name, and my entire resolve shuddered like a leaf. I had come so hard my vision had whited out. I had absolutely, completely, and shamefully loved every second of last night's marathon fucking.

You are pathetic. A pathetic, pregnant, pussy-whipped idiot. Now get your shit together. You have a life to escape.

I flung the covers off. The cool air hit my naked, sticky skin, raising goosebumps. The scent of him, sweat, sex, and that fucking expensive cologne, was still on me. I had to get it off. Stumbling into the walk-in closet, it felt like a museum of a life I never wanted. Racks of clothes Lydia or some stylist had ordered, all labels and fabrics that felt alien. My own things, the few I’d brought, were shoved to the back like an afterthought. I grabbed a simple pair of jeans and a grey v-neck t-shirt armor for the day ahead. Plain cotton underwear, the practical kind, a deliberate rejection of the lace and silk he’d torn off me last night.

I walked into the bathroom, the marble floor icy under my bare feet. It was a temple of cold, sterile luxury, all gleaming surfaces and minimalist fixtures. And it was here, in this very spot, just a few mornings ago, that he’d… The memory ambushed me, vivid and unforgiving.

I was in the shower, the water a hot, stinging relief, trying to wash away the feeling of him from the night before. The glass door slid open, steam billowing out. He stood there, already dressed for the day in a suit that cost more than my first car, completely unbothered.

“What are you doing?” I’d blurted, covering myself with my hands.

He’d raised a brow, stepping in like he owned the space. Which he did. “Using the shower. This one has the best water pressure.”

“There are five other bathrooms!”

“Seven,” he’d corrected, his eyes cutting through the steam. He’d walked toward me, not even looking, and turned the tap higher. “Do I look like I’m joking, fiancée?”

I’d backed up, my back hitting the cold tile. He’d ignored me, running his hands through his hair. The casual arrogance, the sheer ownership, had lit a fuse in me.

“You’re impossible,” I’d muttered, trying to push past him.

He’d turned then, his gaze dropping, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. “You look like you can’t stop looking at me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He’d smiled, a predator’s smile. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t need to.” He’d stepped closer, the water plastering his dress shirt to his chest, outlining every muscle. The air had crackled. I’d hated how my heart hammered, how my breath hitched. His hand had come up, not to touch me, but to brush against the peak of my breast through the water. A deliberate, casual stroke that made me gasp, my body betraying me instantly.

“See?” he’d murmured, his voice dropping to that wicked, intimate timbre that liquefied my bones. “Your body remembers who it belongs to, even if your mouth wants to argue.”

Now, standing in the same spot, dry and sore, I could still feel the ghost of that touch. I turned the shower on, as hot as I could stand it, and stepped under the spray, desperate to scrub the memory away. But the water on my skin just brought back another one, last night. The living room. The fight. Him unbuttoning his shirt, one agonizing button at a time, his eyes locked on mine. The way he’d forced me over the back of the couch, the brutal, claiming feel of him taking me from behind, his words a filthy, degrading mantra in my ear. “You like that, don’t you? Your body always tells me the truth.”

I grabbed the soap, scrubbing my skin raw, but I could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on my hips, the sting of his grip. I washed between my legs, wincing at the tenderness, and a fresh wave of humiliation washed over me. I had been so wet for him. While he was telling me I was just a problem to be solved, a contract to be signed, my body had been weeping for his cock. What is wrong with me? I thought, pressing my forehead against the cool tile. Why can’t I think straight when he’s inside me? It was like my brain short-circuited. All the logic, all the righteous anger, just melted into a puddle of need. I hated that he was a self-absorbed jerk, yes. But God, I liked the way he... I liked the way he touched me, the way his arrogance translated into a sexual confidence that left me breathless and boneless. I knew I shouldn’t enjoy it. It was fucked up. But I did.

Hell, he’s the only man who’s ever been inside you, the voice reminded me, twisting the knife. Your first. Your only. Of course you’re addicted. You don’t know any better.

That thought was the most terrifying of all. Was this what it was always like? This all-consuming, degrading, incredible feeling? Or was it just him? Was Stephano some kind of sexual drug I’d gotten hooked on? And today, I was supposed to walk away from it. For Alex. Good, kind, safe Alex, who offered love and security and a life where I wouldn’t feel like a used dishrag every morning. A man who would probably be gentle, who would ask if I was okay, who would never dream of bending me over a couch and fucking me until I forgot my own name.

The thought should have been a comfort. Instead, it felt… bland. Like switching from a top-shelf whiskey to warm milk.

You are so fucked up, Camilla. So completely and utterly fucked up.

I turned off the water, the sudden silence ringing in my ears. I stepped out and caught my reflection in the vast, misted mirror. A pale, wide-eyed girl stared back, her hair plastered to her head, her skin flushed from scrubbing. She looked young and scared. And, despite everything, there was a faint, lingering glow in her eyes.

I was going to meet Alex. I was going to plan my escape from the man who owned my body and was trying to own my life.