Ruin Me Gently

Chapter Eight

Scarlet POV

I’m barely holding onto my dignity by a thread as Zain dumps a mountain of lingerie into my arms and shoves me toward the fitting rooms.

“Try them all, darling,” he says, clapping his hands like a proud stage mom. “And I want a full catwalk for each one. Sell it to me.”

“I hate you,” I mutter as the fitting room door closes behind me.

“You love me,” he sings through the curtain.

I strip out of my clothes, face burning, and wriggle into the first set, a pale pink lace bra and matching panties that feel way too delicate for a disaster like me. When I step out, tugging at the hem nervously, Zain’s face lights up.

“Yes, baby!” he cheers, snapping his fingers. “You are stunning! Now give me a little spin, come on.”

Groaning, I shuffle awkwardly down the tiny aisle, feeling like an i***t. But Zain whistles low, eyes sparkling.

“Look at you,” he says, grinning wide. “You are a goddamn dream. That color is everything on you. You’re giving s*xy but still sweet. A literal angel with a filthy secret.”

Somewhere inside me, something shifts. His words... they make me feel good. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m more than the awkward virgin everyone assumes I am. Like maybe, if I tried hard enough, someone could want me.

Even if Zain never could. Even if he’s gay.

I still want him to see me. To really see me.

I slip back behind the curtain, heart thudding, and change into the next set, deep red satin with a garter belt. This time, when I step out, I put a little swing in my hips.

Zain’s mouth falls open, and he clutches his chest dramatically. “Scarlet, my darling, if I had a d*ck for you, it would be standing and saluting right now.”

I choke on a laugh and strut a little bolder.

Set after set, he praises me, a black lace teddy that he calls “criminally hot,” a sheer white babydoll he says makes me look like “a sinful bride,” and a dark blue number with cutouts that earns a low wolf-whistle.

Each compliment chips away at the nervous shell around me until by the time I’m slipping into the last set, I actually feel... s*xy. Beautiful. Powerful.

I come out in a simple black bra and thong, the lace hugging every curve, and Zain leans back in his seat, beaming like a proud parent.

“Baby, you are devastating,” he says, voice softer this time. “If you saw yourself the way I see you right now, you would never doubt yourself again.”

My heart twists painfully. I want to believe him. I want to stay in this moment forever, wrapped in his laughter and easy love.

But of course, Zain being Zain, he can’t let the moment stay sweet for long.

“Right!” he says, clapping once. “Peepholes. We need some.”

I blink. “What?”

“Peephole lingerie!” he says brightly, already digging through a rack. “It’s brilliant. Maybe you won’t feel super comfortable being fully naked right away, right? Peepholes give you that tease, that s*xy edge, without feeling like you’re totally exposed.”

I stare at him in horror as he waves a black lace bra with literal holes over the n*ppl*s in the air.

“No,” I say weakly.

“Yes,” he counters, tossing it at me. “For you. Not for anyone else. For you to feel powerful. To know you could destroy someone if you wanted to.”

I clutch the ridiculous piece of fabric to my chest and groan into it.

This is my life now, and weirdly? I don’t hate it.

Paying for everything feels like some sort of weird public execution. The cashier, a girl covered in tattoos with a bored expression, scans each toy and piece of lingerie without batting an eye. Zain, however, makes it worse by announcing loudly at every beep what it’s for.

“Bullet vibe, for those nights when you need Jesus but settle for battery-operated sin!”

“Cl*t sucker, mandatory for anyone who enjoys seeing God without dying!”

“Peephole bra, for when you want to say ‘hello’ without speaking!”

By the time the last item slides into a bag, I’m ready to crawl into the nearest bin and live there permanently. Armed with three giant bags of debauchery, we finally leave.

I barely make it three steps before Zain claps his hands together, his grin devilish.

“Alright, gorgeous, get your *ss ready when we get home. We’re going out tonight.”

I blink at him. “We just bought a full s*x shop, and now we’re going clubbing?”

“Not clubbing,” he says, tossing an arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the car. “Friends’ house party. Chill vibes. Booze. Maybe poor decisions. You need it.”

“I really don’t.”

“You do,” he says, already opening the door of the car. “Trust the process, darling.”

By the time we get home, my nerves are trying to convince me to fake an illness. But somehow... the giddy, chaotic energy from earlier is still buzzing under my skin. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I do need this.

In my room, I pull out a simple black dress, short, but not scandalous, and pair it with some strappy heels. My hair actually behaves for once, falling in loose waves around my shoulders. When I glance at myself in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize the girl staring back.

I look... good. Not just tolerable. Good.

Zain whistles when he sees me. “Baby, if I wasn’t firmly in dickland, I’d be proposing marriage right now.”

I roll my eyes but secretly glow inside.

Half an hour later, we pull up outside a big house already thumping with low music and laughter spilling onto the front lawn.

Inside, the place is packed but relaxed, no grinding bodies, just clusters of people talking, laughing, drinking. Zain disappears almost instantly, dragged off by Liam with a wink over his shoulder.

I hover awkwardly at first, cradling a red cup someone shoves into my hand, until I hear my name called.

“Scarlet!”

I turn and find myself facing Callum. Oh God. Callum. This was Zain's plan.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed, which is how he always looks, somehow.

Ex-boyfriend. Current occasional friend. Still too hot for my peace of mind.

He grins and lifts his drink. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“I didn’t think I’d survive the day,” I mutter, making him laugh.

Before I know it, I’m pulled into a hug, and the tension eases out of my shoulders. It’s easy with Callum. It always was, even after we broke up.

We talk. We laugh. We slip into old banter without even trying. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not thinking about Jacob, or being a virgin, or the bags of s*x toys sitting at home.

I’m just... here.

Laughing and living, and maybe, just maybe, starting to believe I could have more than just waiting for the right moment.