CHAPTER 3: DARK CRAVINGS
1122 Words
Mellu’s POV
The afternoon sun bled through my window, casting golden slants across the room.
It was almost time for dinner.
The so-called dinner.
My mother—selfish, reckless, and wildly unstable—had married again, this time to a billionaire mafia lord. And just like that, she expected me to play along. To sit at a table with her new husband and pretend like our lives hadn’t been built on chaos and escape.
I wasn’t feeling it.
I didn’t want to move into another house, another man’s life. We had just relocated a month ago, and now she was acting like Italy was our home. Like she wasn’t the same woman who had stolen money and fled Mexico with me in tow.
God, how the hell did this woman become my mother?
She was a psychopath.
Then, I halted.
Because, so was I.
My cravings, my thoughts—they weren’t normal. They weren’t just "high libido" or "a healthy s*x drive." They were obsessions.
Back in Mexico, I had seen a s*x therapist, convinced that something was deeply wrong with me.
"You probably have a high libido," he had said, his voice annoyingly neutral, as if my confession hadn’t been laced with something dark. "Which is completely normal and healthy."
Healthy?
I leaned forward in my seat, my voice low, deliberate. "No. You don’t get it. I think about it every single day. Every moment. I want to be punished. I crave pain. Real pain. I don’t just want it—I need it."
His face remained composed, but I had caught it. The slight shift in his eyes. The flicker of discomfort before he forced himself to nod.
"It could be OCD," he had suggested, clearing his throat. "Maybe you should try having se—"
I had tuned him out, staring blankly at his mouth moving, at his pathetic attempt to rationalize me.
I wasn’t normal.
And therapy wasn’t going to fix it.
I had even tried psychiatry classes, hoping to find an answer, a way to silence the thoughts clawing at my mind.
It had been useless.
With a sharp exhale, I shoved the memory away, walking over to my closet.
I had just stepped out of the shower, water droplets still clinging to my skin.
I reached for my underwear, my fingers brushing against something cold and familiar.
I froze.
My vibrator.
It sat there, tucked in the back of the drawer, waiting.
The thoughts started creeping in again.
I had bought it when I was seventeen, after realizing that men did nothing for me.
Sex had been… empty.
Their hands on me. Their weight. Their desperate thrusts.
Nothing.
A void.
The vibrator had helped—for a while.
Now, I was almost twenty-one, and I hadn’t let a man touch me since I was seventeen.
A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat.
I was supposed to be young and wild and free, wasn’t I? I was supposed to be living.
But I wasn’t.
I was stuck, trapped in my own obsessions.
My fingers hovered over the vibrator, my body aching for release.
For control.
For pain.
But then—no.
I clenched my jaw and shoved it away, slamming the drawer shut.
I was done with this. Done letting my darkness define me.
I was almost twenty-one, with **no job, no boyfriend, no future.
After this damn dinner, I was going to look for a job.
Then I'll move out from my mum and her disgusting behaviors.
I was going to be like any other normal girl.
I had too.
– The Taste of Wealth
“Oh my God, you’re still lying in bed?”
Veronica’s voice shattered the silence as she barged into my room, the door slamming against the wall. I groaned, burying my face deeper into my pillow.
“I’m tired,” I muttered, rolling onto my back and squinting at my mother.
She stood at the foot of my bed, her sharp green eyes slicing through me.
“Don’t even start with your bullshit,” she snapped, dropping two dresses onto my bed.
One red. One black.
Both velvet, both expensive, each with a deep V-line that dipped scandalously and a thigh-high slit. Beside them sat a pair of Louis Vuitton heels, sleek and deadly.
I pushed myself up, scanning my mother from head to toe.
“Wow. You look like a classy b***h,” I said, my voice lazy, my lips curving into an effortless smirk.
My mum tossed her hair over her shoulder, her expression smug. “I look like a goddess.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Get ready,” she continued, her tone firm. “Your father doesn’t play with time—he’s a businessman.”
I scoffed. Your husband.
The words tasted bitter in my mouth.
With a groan, I swung my legs off the bed, reaching for the dresses. My fingers trailed over the fabric. Damn.
For a moment, I felt excited.
Not for dinner. Not for playing pretend at a table filled with rich, powerful men.
But for the dress. The shoes. The money.
Slipping into the red gown, I turned to the mirror. And there she was.
Mellu.
A goddess in human skin.
The dress clung to my figure like it was made for me. The slit teased my long legs with every movement. The red velvet melted against my rich olive skin, making my caramel eyes gleam. My dark black hair cascaded down my back like silk, a stark contrast against the deep crimson.
I had always been stared at back in Mexico. Men, women—it didn’t matter. They ogled. They craved.
I was half Mexican, half Native American, and it made me look like something otherworldly. A creature sculpted by gods and dipped in fire and danger.
I twirled, striking a pose, taking pictures—admiring myself in every angle.
I didn’t wear makeup. I never needed to.
Pulling on the Louis Vuitton heels, I stepped out of my room and into the living room, my confidence strutting beside me.
I felt rich.
I felt good.
I felt powerful.
“You look like a bag of millions,” my mum said, eyeing me with approval as I walked out.
I smirked. “Yeah, I know.”
I glanced at her, taking in her flawless appearance—her designer dress, her bold red lips, the diamonds sparkling on her wrist.
“And damn, Mama, you look wealthy.”
She smiled, a slow, satisfied smirk stretching across her face. We both knew what this was.
A game.
A game she had played and won.
As we stepped outside, my breath hitched.
Lo and behold—a black limousine waited at the curb.
- Writer
