⚠️ Mature Content Warning
This chapter contains scenes of explicit intimacy, emotional manipulation, and themes intended for mature audiences. Reader discretion is advised.
I still smelled like him. His scent clung to my skin, heavy and intimate, a cruel reminder of what happened the night before. I hadn't even bothered to shower. I just lay there, tangled in the sheets, empty and numb. There were no texts nor missed calls. Nothing. He'd used me and left—like I was a secret he never meant to keep.
I didn't go to work. I had no strength, no reason to move. I didn't even brush my hair. I sat by the window, clutching my phone like an idiot, waiting for something I knew wasn't coming. It's laughable now. I used to have everything—a complete family, a future I could rely on, a best friend who always had my back. I gave it all up. For him. I chose him, knowing full well I might not be chosen back. I knew I'd get burned. I just didn't expect it to hurt this badly.
He never promised love, but I clung to the moments anyway. The touches, the silence, the presence. I told myself they were enough even when I knew they weren't. At one point, I felt special. Now, I just feel used. And maybe that's on me. I knew he had a past. I knew there was someone else. And still, I gambled.
My phone buzzed, dragging me back to reality. A message from Danica. I smiled bitterly. She was hurting too, but what could I say? I was barely breathing myself.
"Max, don't tell me you skipped work again," she wrote.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. She would only say the things I kept telling myself but refused to hear.
Another message came in—this time from Troy.
"I left something in your drawer. Can you check it later?"
That was all. No greeting. No 'thank you.' No acknowledgment that he had wrecked me last night. I clutched the edge of my chair as tears streamed down my face—not out of anger, but from exhaustion. I hated that even a short message from him could still affect me.
I should block him. I should disappear. But I couldn't. He kept hurting me—and I kept letting him.
It was nearly midnight when I got out of the shower. I had just laid down, planning to sleep, when I heard a knock at the door. Three sharp knocks. A pause. Then one more.
I didn't need to check. I already knew.
When I opened the door, he was standing there in a hoodie, his expression unreadable.
"Can I stay tonight?" he asked.
I should've slammed the door. I should've asked him why. Why now? Why again? But I didn't. I just nodded.
He walked past me like he owned the place, heading straight to my room.
"Troy—"
"Don't," he said, pulling me into a kiss. "No questions tonight."
His mouth was rough, desperate, angry. This wasn't affection. It felt like punishment—like he was taking something from me just because he could. Maybe I let him because I wanted to feel anything. Even pain.
He threw me onto the bed. His hands were everywhere—impatient, forceful. He undressed me like I was an obligation. And I let him. There was no tenderness. No care. Just raw, reckless possession.
He didn't tell me I was beautiful. He didn't ask if I was okay. He just took and I gave.
His hand slid between my thighs. I gasped—not from pleasure, but from how hard he held me. He didn't ask if I wanted it. He didn't need permission. He just pushed into me like he owned me.
And I let him. Like I always does. Because a part of me still believed that this was better than being nothing.
"Say my name," he growled.
And I did. Even with tears in my eyes, I said his name again and again. Because if that's what it took to make him stay—even just for tonight—I'd do it without thinking twice.
Afterward, I lay there, staring at the ceiling. He had already turned his back to me, drifting off like nothing had happened. I wished we were like any normal couple. The kind that holds each other after, whispers something soft, maybe even falls asleep tangled up in warmth. But that was never going to be us—and deep down, I always knew
I placed a hand over my chest, trying to remember where my dignity had gone.
And then it hit me.
He wasn't here because he missed me. He wasn't here because he needed me. He was here because of her. I was his outlet. His revenge. A way to prove—to himself or to her—that he didn't care.
I was a pawn in whatever war he had with Trina.
It hurt—but that was the truth. He never loved me. What he loved was the power, the control... the way I always said yes, even when it broke me. Then, as if to confirm it, he said—without even turning to face me "You don't get to ask questions, Max. Just open your legs like you always do."
I broke. But I didn't move. I didn't react. I just stared at the ceiling, blinking back the tears.
What was I even holding on to?
Pride? Gone.
Dignity? I handed it to him.
Hope? I buried it the first time he called me by her name in bed.
Still… I stayed.
Because being his secret felt better than being nothing at all.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Trina.
"Hey, Maxine. We need to talk."