Gabriella
The house was quiet after midnight. The kind of quiet that presses against your ears until you start hearing your own heartbeat.
Aiden had fallen asleep faster than usual—deep, even breaths, one arm thrown across the sheets like he owned the entire bed and everything on it. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. Charging cable snaking across the wood like a lifeline.
I'd been lying awake for hours. Staring at the ceiling. Replaying the ballroom, the dance, the mirror, the way he'd made me come while forcing me to watch my own face twist. The way my body had betrayed me again. And again.
My own phone was gone. Confiscated the first night. "You don't need distractions," he'd said. Like I was a teenager grounded for bad grades.
But his was right there.
I waited another ten minutes. Listened to the house settle. The distant hum of the fridge downstairs. Wind against the windows. His breathing never changed.
Slow. Careful. I slid out from under his arm. Inch by inch. The sheets whispered. My bare feet hit cold floor. Heart slamming so hard I was sure he'd wake up from the noise alone.
He didn't.
I reached for the phone. Fingers trembling. Screen lit up at my touch—no passcode. Arrogant bastard. Probably thought I'd never dare.
I opened the messages app. Scrolled fast. Names I didn't recognise. Pack business. Dirty jokes from Jax. A group chat labeled "Santos Project" with a wolf emoji. My stomach lurched.
I didn't open it. Not yet.
Instead I went to contacts. Found my mother's name. Thumb hovered.
One call. Just one. Hear her voice. Tell her I'm okay. Or not okay. Anything real.
I hit call.
It rang once. Twice.
A hand clamped over my mouth.
Hard.
The phone flew out of my grip—caught mid-air by Aiden's other hand. He ended the call before it connected. Screen went dark again.
He spun me around so fast the room blurred. Pushed me back against the wall. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to pin.
His body crowded mine. Naked chest to my thin sleep shirt. Heat. Muscle. Fury.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
His voice was low. Dangerous. Sleep-rough.
I couldn't answer. His hand was still over my mouth.
He leaned in. Nose almost touching mine.
"You think you can call Mommy while I'm sleeping? Think you can whisper for help and I won't feel it?"
I shook my head. Tears stung. Hot. Immediate.
He pulled his hand away. Just enough so I could breathe.
"Talk."
"I just… wanted to hear her voice."
His laugh was short. Bitter.
"You wanted to tell her what a monster I am. How I fuck you. How I make you come while you hate me. How I own every inch of you."
I looked away.
He grabbed my chin. Forced my eyes back to his.
"Answer me."
"Yes," I whispered.
He studied me. Long seconds. Then—surprising me—he stepped back. Let me breathe.
"Fine."
I blinked.
He walked to the bed. Picked up his phone. Unlocked it again. Opened the call log. Hit my mother's number.
Put it on speaker.
It rang.
My mother picked up on the third ring. Voice sleepy. Worried.
"Gabi? Baby? Is everything okay?"
Aiden held the phone between us. Watched my face.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
"Gabi?" Her voice cracked. "Sweetheart, talk to me."
Aiden raised one brow. Silent challenge.
I swallowed.
"I'm… I'm fine, Mom."
Aiden's mouth curved. Small. Satisfied.
"Are you sure? You sound—"
"I'm fine." The words tasted like glass. "Just… missed you. That's all."
A long pause on her end.
"Okay. Okay, baby. I miss you too. So much. If you ever need anything—"
"I know." I cut her off before the tears could spill. "I love you."
"Love you more. Call anytime. Anytime, Gabi."
The line went dead.
Aiden ended the call. Set the phone down.
Then he turned back to me.
I was crying now. Silent. Shoulders shaking.
He crossed the room. Slow. Pulled me against his chest. Arms around me. Not gentle. Not comforting. Just holding.
"You did good," he murmured into my hair. "You kept the mask on. Even when it hurt."
I hated him for saying it like praise.
I hated myself more for the way my arms came up anyway. Wrapped around his waist. Clung.
He kissed the top of my head.
Then he walked me back to the bed. Pushed me down. Climbed over me.
"Reward time," he said quietly.
I didn't fight.
Not tonight.
Because fighting meant losing more than I could afford.
And somewhere in the dark part of me—the part that was learning how to survive him—I was starting to understand:
The only way out was through.
And the only way through was letting him think he'd already won.