Deadly Devotion

Anonymous

RORY POV

It’s been two days since that catastrophic failure in Grayson’s penthouse. Two days of self-imposed exile in my bedroom at the White House, curtains drawn, phone on silent, existing in a fog of humiliation so thick I can barely breathe through it.

Since that night, I haven’t left my room except to use the bathroom. I’ve ignored the knocking, Elena checking if I’m okay, my father’s assistant summoning me to some pointless dinner, Secret Service doing their hourly wellness checks. I’ve subsisted on bottled water and the granola bars I keep stashed in my nightstand.

Grayson has called seventeen times.

Seventeen. If I’m not mistaken. Each voicemail progressively more apologetic, his voice shifting from defensive to pleading to angry again. I haven’t listened to a single one past the first few seconds. After the tenth call, I blocked his number. Then blocked him on i********:, Twitter, Snapchat—every platform where his face might appear and remind me of his words.

By now, the blogs have probably started the breakup rumors. “First Daughter and Whitlock Heir on the Rocks?” “Trouble in Paradise for America’s Golden Couple?” I don’t care. Let them talk. For once, I don’t care what anyone thinks.

Juliet has been blowing up my phone too. Texts, calls, voice notes getting progressively more worried. I ignored them all. I couldn’t face her. I couldn’t face anyone.

But by the second night, the walls start closing in. The silence gets too heavy. I need air. I need someone who won’t judge me.

I need Juliet.

I slip out of the residence quietly—no agents, no drivers. Just me in a hoodie and sunglasses, even though it’s dark. I drive myself to her family’s place in Georgetown.

I rang the bell twice before her mother answered, elegant even in casual Saturday clothes.

“Rory! Sweetheart, come in. We haven’t seen you in weeks.” Mrs. Willam embraces me warmly, smelling like jasmine and expensive moisturizer. “Julian’s been worried sick. She’s upstairs in her room, writing as usual. Go on up.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

I climb the familiar stairs to the third floor, my legs heavy. Julian’s door is cracked open, and I can hear the rapid clicking of her keyboard, she’s always writing something. Her novel, her blog, think pieces about politics and culture that get published in places like The Atlantic and Vox. She’s brilliant in ways I’ll never be.

I push the door open without knocking.

Julian’s head snaps up from her laptop, eyes widening. “Oh my God, Rory, you psychotic b***h! Where the hell have you been? You look like shit.”

Her voice is laced with equal parts relief and irritation as she takes in my appearance—unwashed hair in a messy bun, oversized hoodie, leggings, no makeup. I look like I’ve been held hostage, which isn’t far from the truth.

“Thanks,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes and dramatically flopping onto her bed, spreading my arms and legs like a starfish. The familiar scent of her vanilla candle and too many perfumes hits me, and for the first moment in days, I breathe easier.

She closes the door, leans against it. “Seriously. You didn’t answer any of my texts. No calls. Nothing. I was about to show up at the White House with a search party.”

“I’ve been home, studying.” I say, staring at the ceiling.

“Studying.” Julian closes her laptop with deliberate slowness. “You didn’t reply to my texts. You didn’t return my calls. You’ve been radio silent for two days, Rory. What happened? Is this about Grayson?”

The name makes my stomach clench. “I guess you could say that.”

She abandons her desk chair and settles beside me on the bed, tucking her legs underneath her. She studies me with those sharp, analytical eyes that miss nothing, the same eyes that make her such a good writer.

“It didn’t go well, did it?” Her voice has gone soft, careful.

“It was bad, Jules. I wish the floor had opened up and swallowed me whole.” I sit up, unable to maintain the casual facade. “I wish I could erase that entire night from existence.”

“Tell me everything. What did that asshole say to you?” She leans forward, already bristling with protective rage.

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. The words feel stuck in my throat. Heavy. Embarrassing.

“We were trying. Like usual. I’d spent the whole day preparing, watching videos, tutorials, everything. I thought maybe this time would be different.” I pause, swallowing.

“But it wasn’t. Nothing changed. I still felt… nothing.”

Juliet doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.

“He got frustrated. Really frustrated. And then he said…” My voice cracks. I force the words out. “He said I’m a living corpse. That I’m hollow. That there’s nothing inside me.”

“What?!” Julian’s voice cracks like a whip. “Grayson actually said that to you? Those words?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them back furiously.

Julian’s arms wrap around me immediately, pulling me against her chest. She smells like lavender and coffee, familiar and safe. “I swear to God, I’m going to kill him. I’m going to cut off his d**k and feed it to him.”

Despite everything, I almost laugh. “You can’t. He’s my future husband, remember?”

“Well, he f*****g sucks!” She pulls back to look at me, hands gripping my shoulders. “How could he say something so cruel to you? You’re literally perfect, Rory. Look at you.” She gestures at my body like it’s evidence in a trial.

“Am I really?” My voice breaks. “I don’t respond to my boyfriend’s touch, Jules. That’s not normal. That’s not perfect. That’s broken.”

“Listen to me.” Her tone shifts, becoming serious and analytical, the voice she uses when she’s about to make a point. “It’s not about you being broken. You just need someone you actually have a connection with. Not some arranged golden boy the President handpicked for political advantage.”

“I don’t have a connection with anyone,” I protest. “I’m supposed to have one with Grayson. That’s the whole point. But because I’m sexually dysfunctional, I can’t even—”

“Stop.” Julian cuts me off. “You’re not dysfunctional. You just haven’t found what works for you yet. You need to learn about your body, discover what actually turns you on. And you can’t do that with someone like Grayson who makes you feel like a performance is required.”

Except for one person, whispers a treacherous voice in my head. My stalker. The only person who makes my heart race, who makes me feel alive. But I can’t say that out loud. Julian would have me institutionalized.

“And how exactly am I supposed to learn?” I ask bitterly. “Take a class? Read more articles that don’t help?”

Julian’s eyes light up with that particular gleam that means she’s formulating a plan. “You could practice with someone. Someone anonymous, someone with no expectations or judgment. They could help you figure out what you like, what your body responds to. Then once you’ve got it figured out, you can decide what to do about Grayson. Though personally, I vote you send him photographic evidence of your success and tell him to f**k off forever.”

I stare at her. “Practice with someone? Jules, I’m the President’s daughter. I can’t just go pick up random guys at bars.”

“Not random guys at bars, obviously.” She rolls her eyes. “There are apps for this. Anonymous hookup sites where you can be selective, set boundaries, meet someone discreet.” She pauses, watching my reaction. “Have you ever considered that maybe it’s not about men specifically? Maybe you’d respond better to women?”

The suggestion catches me off guard. I’ve never seriously considered it, but… “I don’t think gender is the issue. I think I’m the issue.”

“You won’t know until you try different things.”

She’s gaining momentum now, excited by the plan forming in her mind. “And before you worry about recognition, makeup can work miracles. I could make you completely unrecognizable. Plus, if you meet someone at night, keep the lights low, you’re golden. I’ve read hundreds of stories online from people who overcame responsive desire issues. It helped them. It could help you too.”

I bite my lip. It sounds insane.

But also… tempting.

If I could just feel something. Anything. Prove to myself I’m not dead inside.

“What if it gets out?” I voice my greatest fear.

“What if someone recognizes me and it becomes a scandal? My father would—”

“Your father would survive,” Julian interrupts firmly. “And honestly? f**k him. This isn’t about his image or his political career. This is about you and your wellbeing, Rory. You deserve to feel good. You deserve to understand your own body.”

I think about Grayson’s face when he pulled away from me, disgusted. About the word corpse echoing in my head for two days straight. About marrying him and spending the rest of my life pretending, performing, failing.

“What’s the app called?” The words escape before I can stop them.

Julian grins, predatory and pleased. “It’s called Discreet. Very exclusive, very discreet. Just like the name. Users are verified but anonymous. You create a profile with your preferences and boundaries, and you can browse potential matches. Everything’s encrypted, and there’s a strict no-photography policy enforced by some serious tech. It’s designed for people who need discretion.”

She pulls out her phone, already navigating to the site. “Here, look. You fill out what you’re looking for—casual, educational, specific kinks, whatever. You can be as detailed or as vague as you want. Then you browse profiles and connect with people who match your criteria.”

“This is insane,” I whisper.

My hands shake slightly as I pull out my own phone. “If I do this… if it doesn’t work…”

“Then you’ll know you tried. And you’ll have other options to explore, therapy, medical consultation, whatever. But you won’t spend the rest of your life wondering if you could have been different.”

She squeezes my hand. “I’ll help you with everything. Profile, makeup, safety protocols. You won’t be alone in this.”

I open my browser and type in the URL she showed me. The landing page is elegant, discreet: Obscura: Discreet Connections for Discerning Individuals.

“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Let’s do this.”

Julian squeals and throws her arms around me.

“Yes! God, finally. You’re taking your life back, Rory. This is huge.”

As she launches into detailed plans about profile creation and safety measures, I feel something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. Not quite hope, I’m too damaged for that. But maybe… possibility.