Deadly Devotion

Dead

RORY POV

The following day, I couldn’t stop obsessing over tonight’s meeting with Grayson. I had a photoshoot scheduled for the afternoon—some editorial spread for Vogue—but I canceled, claiming a migraine. Instead, did something I’ve never done before. I spent hours locked in my bedroom, laptop balanced on my thighs, watching porn tutorials and s*x advice videos on incognito mode.

How to be responsive during s*x.

What men want in bed.

Tips for the first time.

I took notes like I was studying for finals. Because in a way, I was. This was a test I couldn’t afford to fail again.

The last time Grayson and I attempted s*x, I fell asleep while he was going down on me. Actually passed out mid-act like I’d been anesthetized. When I say I’m broken beyond repair, I mean it. I can’t feel anything when my boyfriend touches me.

I’ve perfected the art of excuses.

But not anymore. This is my last chance, and I’m determined to make it count.

I pick the sexiest dress I own—black, tight, low-cut, short enough that it barely covers anything. The kind of thing the tabloids would lose their minds over if they caught me in it. I take a few selfies in the mirror, angle them just right, and post them online before I can overthink it. Let the world see I’m not always the perfect little First Daughter.

I take several selfies, filtering and editing until I look confident, desirable, alive. I post them with a caption: “Tonight’s mood🖤” The likes flood in within seconds. Validation from strangers who don’t know I’m completely numb inside.

I text Julian, my best friend: If tonight goes well, I’m calling you immediately with all the filthy details.

Her response is instant: GET IT GIRL. You deserve to feel good. Text me after. Love you.

I wish I believed that.

*****************

Grayson’s penthouse is in Tribeca. Sleek, modern, worth probably fifty million dollars. He’s twenty-seven, emancipated from parental oversight, living the bachelor fantasy. Unlike me, still trapped in the White House like some political Rapunzel.

He opens the door with that grin, pulls me inside, kisses me like he’s been waiting forever.

“You look f*****g incredible,” he says, eyes dragging over the dress.

“Thanks.”

“I have things planned for us tonight,” he says, leading me straight to the bedroom.

I sit on the edge of the bed, heart pounding.

“Really? We should probably get started.”

He pours two generous glasses of red wine, something French with a label I don’t recognize. We settle onto the bed, and he touches his glass to mine.

“To us,” he says, eyes glittering with anticipation. “And to tonight.”

I take a large swallow, hoping the alcohol will smooth away my jagged edges. Make me normal. Functional.

He sets down his glass and leans in, capturing my mouth with his. I kiss back, mimicking the passion I’ve observed in countless videos. His tongue probes deeper, and I part my lips obediently. He tastes like wine and mint gum.

Be present. Be responsive. Make noise.

His hands find the zipper at my back, dragging it down with practiced ease. The dress slithers off my shoulders and pools at my waist. He pulls back to look at me, breathing harder now.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect.”

I should feel something. Maybe pride, arousal, anything. Instead, there’s just that familiar void where emotion should exist.

He lowers his mouth toward my stomach, clearly intending to work his way down, and panic spikes through me. Last time he went down on me, I fell asleep. I can’t risk that humiliation again.

“Wait—” I press a hand against his shoulder. “Maybe we could start with… something else? You could touch my breasts?”

The suggestion sounds clinical, awkward. Because it is. I’m following a script from a YouTube video titled “Foreplay Techniques That Drive Men Wild.”

His eyebrows rise, surprise giving way to pleasure. “Wow. Look at you taking charge. I like this side of you, Rory.”

His hands move to the clasp of my bra, unhooking it with practiced efficiency. The lace falls away, exposing me completely. He stares for a long moment, and I fight the urge to cover myself.

“f**k,” he mutters. “First time seeing these. They’re perfect.”

I should say something seductive. Flirtatious. Instead: “They’re… anatomically average, statistically speaking.”

Why am I like this?

He doesn’t seem to register my awkwardness, too focused on lowering his mouth to my n****e. His tongue circles the peak, then his lips close around it, sucking with varying pressure while his hand palms my other breast.

I wait for sensation. For that spark the tutorials promised would ignite in my nerve endings and spread like wildfire through my body.

Nothing happens.

His mouth is just… there. Warm. Wet. Completely unstimulating. According to YouTube, my n*****s should be hardening, my back should be arching, breathy moans should be escaping my throat involuntarily.

Instead: numbness. Like he’s touching someone else’s body while I watch from a distance.

He switches to the other breast, more aggressive now, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. My body remains stubbornly unresponsive, a mannequin being manipulated.

He lifts his head, concern flickering across his features. “Rory? You still with me?”

Shit. Fake it. Now.

I force out a breathy moan. “Mmm, yes. God, that feels… really good.”

His expression brightens immediately, confidence restored. “Yeah? You like that, baby?”

“So good,” I lie, threading my fingers through his hair the way the tutorials demonstrated. “Don’t stop.”

he continues his assault on my breasts while one hand trails down my stomach. I try to maintain the performance. Little gasps and whimpers that sound pornographic and false to my own ears.

But I can’t sustain it. The moans become blank, mechanical. My body remains rigid, every muscle locked tight.

He trails kisses down my ribcage, over my stomach. “You need to relax, Rory. You’re tense as hell.”

“I’m relaxed. I am. Keep going.” My voice sounds strangled even to my own ears.

He returns to my neck, lips and tongue working while his hand slides between my thighs. I force my legs to part, granting him access. His fingers find my center, stroking experimentally.

Then, without warning, he shoves two fingers inside me.

I gasp—not in pleasure but sharp, invasive pain. My body wasn’t ready. I’m not wet. Not even close.

He keeps going, pumping faster into me, either not noticing or not caring about my discomfort. I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, willing myself to endure this.

Then abruptly, he stops and withdraws. When I open my eyes, he’s staring at his hand with an expression I can’t quite read.

“Rory.” His voice has gone flat. “Is something wrong with you?”

He stands, putting distance between us like I’m contaminated. My heart plummets.

“What? I thought we were—” Confusion tangles my thoughts.

“How the hell are you bone dry right now? How am I supposed to f**k you when you’re completely unresponsive?” His voice rises, frustration bleeding into anger I’ve never heard from him before.

Shame floods through me, hot and suffocating.

“Let’s just try again. Please. We can do this.”

“We obviously can’t.” He drags a hand through his hair, pacing. “This isn’t the first time, Rory. At first I thought maybe you were nervous because you’re a virgin, or maybe you just weren’t that into me. But this is f*****g ridiculous. Complete strangers have better chemistry than this. You’re supposed to be my wife.”

The word detonates in my chest like a grenade.

He’s right. I should want this. I should respond to him. What kind of fundamentally defective person can’t even get aroused by their own boyfriend?

“Maybe you’re not doing it right?” I hear myself say, grasping for any explanation that doesn’t center my brokenness. “Maybe you’re bad at this?”

His face darkens dangerously. “Are you seriously suggesting I’m the problem? That I’m not man enough?”

“Yes. That’s it. You’re not—”

“I’m not man enough?” His laugh is bitter, sharp as broken glass. “You’re literally lying there unresponsive like a f*****g corpse, Rory. I could touch any other woman and she’d come in minutes. But not you. Never you.”

The words hit like physical blows.

Corpse. Dead. Unresponsive.

“What did you just say?” My voice cracks despite my determination not to show weakness.

“You heard me. You’re a beautiful, empty shell. A living corpse. That’s why you always look so f*****g hollow—because there’s nothing inside you.” He’s breathing hard now, three months of frustration pouring out. “Do you know how emasculating this is? How humiliating? My girlfriend can’t even get wet for me.”

Tears prick my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I blink furiously, refusing to let them fall. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

“That’s not fair, Grey.” It’s barely a whisper.

He grabs his phone from the nightstand, jaw clenched. “I’m taking a shower. You can let yourself out.”

The bathroom door slams.

I sit there on his expensive sheets, half-naked, drowning in shame. The man I’m supposed to marry, the man my father chose, the man the entire country expects me to wed, just called me a corpse.

And the worst part? He’s not wrong.

My hands shake as I gather my clothes, dressing mechanically. Zipper. Clasp. Buckle. Each movement deliberate, focusing on the physical to avoid the emotional wreckage.

My phone buzzes. Julian: how’s it going??👀🔥

I can’t respond. Can’t admit this spectacular failure.

I leave without saying goodbye, taking the elevator down to the lobby where my driver waits. He doesn’t ask questions, thank God. I can’t possibly explain why I’m crying leaving my boyfriend house right now.

As we pull away from Grayson from Grayson’s building, I stare out of the window at New York glittering lights and wonder if my stalker is watching me right now. If he can see how utterly broken I am.

And why the thought of being seen by someone in the shadow is the only thing that makes me feel.