Episode Four: Bruises and butterflies
1025 Words
Ava didn’t know when it changed.
Maybe it was the third invitation. Or the fifth. Or maybe it was that night he tied her wrists and whispered things in her ear that made her forget how to breathe. But something had shifted—subtly, dangerously.
She was no longer just meeting Damien.
She was waiting for him. Living in the pauses between his texts, checking her reflection before reading his messages like he could see her through the screen. Her friends noticed. Her work suffered. She didn’t care.
He was under her skin now.
She’d stopped trying to fight it.
And that terrified her.
It was Tuesday when she realized she hadn’t spoken to anyone besides Damien in five days.
Not a single call to her sister. Not one happy hour with coworkers. Just empty apartment walls and a series of bruises blooming on her hips like secret tattoos.
She stood in front of the mirror, towel loose around her body, brushing fingers over the latest mark on her collarbone. It was shaped like his mouth.
She closed her eyes. She could still feel him there.
Still taste him.
God.
She was losing herself.
But every time she tried to pull back, to imagine not seeing him again, her chest tightened. Her hands shook. She’d catch herself staring at her phone, praying for a message that didn’t come—until it did.
He never said much.
Just time, date, location.
Commands.
And she followed every one.
That Friday, he changed the game again.
There was no envelope. No knock. No instructions.
Just silence.
Ava checked her messages a dozen times before noon. Then a dozen more after five. At six, she stopped pretending to work.
By eight, she was pacing.
By ten, she was spiraling.
Did I do something wrong?
Was I too eager? Too emotional?
She thought about texting him. Just one line: Are we still meeting tonight?
But she didn’t.
Because she knew what he’d say.
He didn’t reward questions.
She waited until midnight before admitting the truth.
He wasn’t coming.
She slept two hours.
Woke up in cold sweat. Naked. Her sheets tangled. Her mouth dry. Her thighs still sore from the last time he touched her.
She reached for her phone the second she opened her eyes.
Still nothing.
The silence stung more than a slap.
She dressed in autopilot. Black turtleneck. No makeup. Hair in a knot.
She walked to the coffee shop across the street like she wasn’t crumbling.
She ordered tea instead of coffee.
Her hands were trembling.
“You okay, hon?” the barista asked.
Ava nodded.
Lied.
She sat in the corner and stared out the window. She saw couples. Laughter. Normalcy.
It felt foreign.
She had a good life once. Predictable. Safe.
Now she was addicted to the chaos of a man who didn’t promise her a damn thing.
And somehow, that felt more real than anything before it.
She went two more days without hearing from him.
By day three, her nerves snapped.
She walked to his office building. She knew where it was—he’d never taken her there, but she’d Googled it like a stalker one night after a particularly rough session when she needed to see if he was even real.
Security stopped her in the lobby.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I just need to leave something for Damien Cross.”
The guard looked her up and down. Suspicious. Unimpressed.
Ava handed him a sealed envelope with no return address. Just two words inside:
Don’t ignore me.
That night, her phone finally buzzed.
Tomorrow. Midnight. The rooftop. Come prepared.
No apology.
No explanation.
She smiled like she’d won a war.
But deep down, she knew she hadn’t won anything.
He still owned her.
The rooftop was part of a high-rise hotel in Midtown, accessible only through a private elevator. She stepped out into the night air, heels clicking on concrete, her breath visible in the cold.
Damien was already there.
Back turned. Smoking.
She hesitated before stepping closer.
He didn’t turn around.
“You left me in silence,” she said.
“I needed space.”
“You don’t get to disappear.”
“I do,” he said. “And you came anyway.”
He finally turned to face her. “Which means I still own you.”
“No,” she said. “It means I care.”
The word hung in the air like a live wire.
He stepped closer, slow.
“Don’t start believing this is love, Ava.”
“I never said it was.”
“Your eyes say it.”
She looked away.
He caught her chin, forced her to face him.
“You think I’m cruel?”
“Yes.”
“You think I hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you keep coming back?”
“Because…” Her voice broke. “Because I feel alive when I’m with you. And empty when I’m not.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Not softness.
But recognition.
“You want to be needed,” he said. “You want to be broken so someone can put you back together.”
She blinked fast. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth.”
He pulled her against him. “You want to feel pain and call it passion. You want to bleed a little every time I kiss you.”
She didn’t deny it.
Because it was true.
They didn’t f**k on the rooftop.
They kissed.
Soft.
Slow.
Dangerously tender.
And that scared her more than all the rough nights combined.
Because tenderness meant weakness.
And weakness meant hope.
Back at her apartment, he undressed her like she was made of glass. No orders. No ties. Just hands and breath and warmth.
He touched her like she mattered.
She fell asleep in his arms, something she swore she’d never do.
And when she woke up, he was still there.
Staring at her like she was something precious.
She whispered, “What are we doing?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t leave.
And that, for now, was enough.
- Writer
