Marry me, Mr. Mayor

CHAPTER 6

“F*ck… you’re so tight, babe—”

The words cracked through the night like a slap to the face.

The hallway outside Daniel’s room was dim, washed in the sickly yellow of a weak bulb that made the paint look tired and old. The house had settled into that deep provincial quiet—crickets outside, leaves shifting in the wind, the occasional groan of wood adjusting to the night. Everything sounded normal.

Except what was coming from behind that door.

“I like it… I like it,” a woman gasped, wild and breathless. “Harder, Dan!”

Gia.

"Faster... ughhh..." Gia moaned.

"Gia... Giaa... babe, you're so tight..." the more I heard, the more I break.

Cold rushed through me in an instant, as if ice water had been poured straight down my spine. For one foolish second, my mind tried to argue—No. That can’t be her. Gia was Daniel’s childhood friend. That was what he told me. Gia was “like a little sister.” Gia was “nothing to worry about.”

But sound doesn’t lie.

And neither did the fact that the door wasn’t fully shut—just barely open, just wide enough for the truth to leak out.

"Faster! Damn!"

I should have turned around. I should have protected whatever was left of my heart.

But my feet moved anyway, guided by something harsher than curiosity—something desperate for certainty, even if certainty would ruin me.

I leaned closer.

The gap widened, only a little.

And then I saw them.

Daniel—my fiancé—was inside with no shame on his face, no hesitation in his movements, no guilt in his eyes. Bare skin, exposed and fearless, like he had nothing to hide. And Gia was there too, just as naked, just as bold. The sheets were twisted into a mess, the room heavy with heat and breath. The lamp cast a warm glow that made everything look unreal—like a nightmare lit in gold.

For a moment, my mind refused to accept it. Like my eyes were betraying me. Like my brain was trying to save me by blurring the picture.

But it didn’t blur.

It sharpened.

It became painfully clear.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to do this anymore,” Gia panted—too casual, too amused, as if she was talking about canceling a plan. “Since you’re marrying tomorrow.”

My stomach lurched so violently I thought I might be sick.

Tomorrow.

Our wedding.

The dress I’d tried on earlier was still hanging in my closet. The papers were filed. Guests had already traveled here. People were whispering about our future, about how lucky I was, about how perfect everything looked from the outside.

Tomorrow, I was supposed to become his wife.

And tonight, he was—

“Even if I’m married,” Daniel replied, breathless and confident, “I’ll still—” His voice dropped lower, rougher, like he was proud of himself. “I’ll still take you like I’m single.”

My knees almost buckled.

I didn’t realize I’d begun shaking until my ring scraped lightly against my lip—because my hand was still clamped over my mouth, forcing my scream to stay trapped inside me.

Then Gia turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Her eyes slid toward the door.

Toward me.

And she smiled.

Not startled. Not guilty. Not surprised.

A smile sharp enough to cut.

A smile that said, Yes. I know you’re there.

Heat surged through my chest—rage, humiliation, disbelief—all tangled together until my blood felt like fire. Gia held my stare for a long, endless second, the kind of second that stretches until it feels like time itself is mocking you.

And she said everything without speaking.

She knew.

She wanted me to see.

She wanted it to hurt.

And the worst part—the part that made bile crawl up my throat—was how comfortable she looked. How pleased. How normal it seemed to her, like this wasn’t new at all.

Like they’d done it before.

Like my pain was just entertainment.

That was when memories hit me, cruel and taunting: all the times Daniel had acted “respectful” with me. All the times he said he didn’t want to rush. All the times he made me believe he was a gentleman because he never demanded that part of me.

I used to think it was love.

I used to think it was patience.

I used to think it meant he was different.

Now I understood the truth in the ugliest way possible.

He never asked me… because he didn’t need to.

He was getting what he wanted from someone else.

I bit down hard on my lip until I tasted blood—because the sting was the only thing real enough to keep me from collapsing right there on the floor. The room tilted slightly, or maybe it was just me—my body trying to stay standing while my heart tried to survive being shattered.

My eyes burned. Then blurred.

Only then did I realize my cheeks were wet.

I was crying.

Quietly, helplessly—tears slipping down my face while I stood in the dark like a stranger in my own life.

I had come here thinking I would surprise him.

Something small and sweet before the wedding. A private moment. A romantic confession. The truth I was ready to give him like a gift.

But I was the one who got surprised.

And it wasn’t sweet.

It was a knife.

I couldn’t watch any longer.

Because if I stayed one more second, I might do something I couldn’t undo—scream, claw, slam the door open, drag them into the hallway and let the whole house hear what kind of man Daniel really was.

But something inside me—something colder than heartbreak—chose differently.

Not yet.

Not here.

Not like this.

I stepped back from the door as carefully as if the floor might betray me. My legs felt numb, like they belonged to someone else. I forced myself to breathe silently even though my chest burned, even though my throat ached with everything I refused to say.

I walked away.

Each step down the hallway felt like leaving pieces of myself behind—my trust, my softness, the part of me that still wanted to believe love could be simple.

When I reached my room, I shut the door and pressed my back against it, trembling. I wiped my face, but the tears wouldn’t stop. I wiped again. And again. Like if I erased the tears, I could erase what I’d seen.

My reflection in the mirror looked unfamiliar—red eyes, bitten lips, pale skin. But my stare…

My stare wasn’t soft anymore.

It was waking up.

I inhaled slowly, forcing air into my lungs until my chest steadied. Until my hands stopped shaking. Until the pain sharpened into something I could hold—something I could shape.

“Just wait,” I whispered, low enough for only the walls to hear. “You’ll see…”

I swallowed, tasting salt and blood.

“You’ll see how Althea Bailey gets her revenge.”