Chapter 10
466 Words
The sheets still smelled like him.
Spice and sin and sweat. Lust soaked into satin.
But I didn’t feel wanted anymore.
I felt… used.
Even though I’d said yes. Even though I’d begged. Even though the memory of him pulling my hair and f*****g me senseless still made my thighs ache—I felt filthy.
Like some cheap afterthought in a diamond cage.
I sat on the edge of the bed in one of his silk robes, staring out the window like the trees might tell me what the hell I’d become.
⸻
Dominic was gone.
A note on the pillow: Handle business. Don’t go far. I’ll know.
There was a tray of food by the door. Fresh fruit, croissants, a latte with a heart drawn in the foam.
It made me sick.
I hadn’t even tasted his wealth before, and now it was dripping from my skin. Wrapped around my neck. Leaking into my bloodstream like poison disguised as pleasure.
I used to f**k men for money.
Not often. Not proudly. But when you’re hungry and alone, shame starts to feel like a luxury too.
And yet somehow, this felt worse.
Because I wanted him.
I didn’t fake it for cash or smile through it just to survive.
I craved him.
And that made me hate myself more than anything else ever had.
⸻
I walked the halls of the estate barefoot, robe trailing, skin still red from last night. Everywhere I turned was marble, crystal, velvet.
Too soft. Too elegant. Too clean for someone like me.
I belonged in back rooms and cheap motel beds. Not castles.
Definitely not in the bed of the president’s son.
After his father, Dominic Vale was the most powerful man in the country. Billionaire. Political legacy. A man who could silence entire newspapers with a phone call.
And I was… what?
A girl who took her clothes off to keep the lights on?
A nobody.
A sinner.
An object.
So what did that make this?
What did it make me now?
⸻
I stepped into one of the bathrooms—one of five, I think—and looked in the mirror.
I didn’t recognize her.
This girl in silk.
With hickeys blooming on her collarbone and a diamond at her throat.
She looked like a toy. A fantasy. A lie.
My fingers trembled as I unclasped the collar. Held it in my palm.
The gem sparkled. Mocking me.
Every queen needs a collar…
I wasn’t a queen.
I was a w***e in borrowed lace.
⸻
I sank to the floor and cried.
Ugly, shaking sobs that tasted like blood and regret.
And through it all, one thought echoed louder than the rest:
“I don’t deserve this.”
Not the luxury.
Not the attention.
And definitely not him.
- Writer
