The Targeted Lover is Joan

Crawling back

thought freedom would taste sweeter than this.

The first few days after leaving Mira, I convinced myself I’d done the right thing. Walking out of that mansion felt like shedding chains I’d worn for far too long. No more demands, no more games. I was finally my own man.

But reality hit me harder than I expected.

By the end of the first week, I was already running out of money. The odd jobs I’d picked up here and there were barely enough to scrape by. Every rejection email from job applications felt like another door slamming in my face. And by the second week, I was counting coins just to buy bread.

I never realized how much I’d relied on Mira—not for love, not for comfort, but for survival.

I hated myself for it.

The city, once so full of possibilities, now felt like a labyrinth I couldn’t navigate. Nights were the worst. I slept on a borrowed couch in my friend’s cramped apartment, the springs digging into my back. The heater barely worked, and I’d wake up shivering, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

It was on one of those nights, lying in the dark, that Mira’s face crept into my mind.

I could see her smug smile, hear her cutting remarks. But more than that, I remembered the warmth of her mansion, the endless supply of food, the comfort of a bed that didn’t feel like a medieval torture device. My stomach growled at the memory of meals served on silver platters, and I cursed myself for missing any part of that hell.

By the third week, I was desperate.

I walked the streets of the city, my shoes soaked from the relentless rain. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out with trembling hands.

Final notice. Pay by the end of the week or you’re out.

The words blurred as my vision clouded with tears. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in, and every path I’d tried to take led me to a dead end.

Before I realized what I was doing, I dialed her number.

The line rang once, twice, and then her voice came through, sharp and cold.

“Hello?”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. The sound of her voice brought back a flood of memories—most of them bad, all of them vivid.

“It’s me,” I said finally, my voice cracking.

There was a pause, and I could picture her smirking, savoring the moment.

“Well, well. Look who finally decided to come crawling back.”

Her words cut deep, but I forced myself to respond. “I... I need help.”

The silence stretched, and I could almost feel her leaning back in her chair, relishing my desperation.

“Of course you do,” she said, her tone laced with mockery. “You always need me, Joan. What is it this time? Money? A place to stay? Or are you finally ready to admit that you can’t survive without me?”

My hand tightened around the phone. Anger and shame swirled inside me, but I swallowed it all down. “I just need—”

“Enough.” Her voice was sharp, cutting me off mid-sentence. “You don’t get to ask for anything, not after the way you left. If you want my help, you’re going to have to earn it.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the last shred of my dignity crumble. “What do you want me to do?”

Her laughter was soft, almost amused. “Come home. Beg for my forgiveness. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll consider helping you.”

The line went dead before I could respond, leaving me standing in the rain, the weight of her words pressing down on me.

I stared at the phone in my hand, hating myself for what I was about to do.

By the time I reached her mansion, the rain had soaked me to the bone. The gates loomed before me, a reminder of the prison I’d willingly escaped from and was now crawling back to.

When the door opened, Mira stood there, her hand resting on the doorframe. She was wearing a silk robe, her dark eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Joan,” she said, her lips curving into a smile. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to come crawling back.”

I stepped inside, the warmth of the house enveloping me like a suffocating blanket.

Mira closed the door behind me, and I felt her hand on my shoulder. “You made the right choice,” she whispered, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

I didn’t respond. What could I say?

As she led me into the living room, I realized I wasn’t free. I h

ad never been free. And now, I was back where I’d started—at her mercy.