The terms of us

Chapter two

Vivienne

I don't know how we do it, but we find a hotel, next thing, I find my way to the bed as he throws me down.

I don't even remember walking here. All I know is the weight of him, the heat of him and the feel of him grabbing ny thighs like it belongs to him.

I should be afraid.

I'm not.

His mouth finds mine again, hungry and demanding, and I kiss him back like I'm drowning and he's air. Maybe I am drowning. Maybe I've been drowning since I walked into that bridal suite and found my whole life in ruins.

His hands are everywhere. My hips, my waist... He touches me like he's memorizing me, mapping every inch of skin he can reach.

His fingers find the zipper of my dress. He pulls it down slowly, and I shiver as the cool air hits my skin. The dress pools around my waist. His eyes travel down my body, grey and unreadable, and I should feel exposed. I should feel vulnerable. But all I feel is seen.

Really seen.

For the first time in what feels like forever.

He lowers me onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against my back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body hovering over mine. He takes his time now, slower than before, pressing kisses down my throat, my collarbone, the space between my breasts.

I arch into him. I can't help it.

His mouth traces lower. His hands find my hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and I don't care. I want the marks. I want something to prove that this happened, that I existed for a few hours as something other than the girl who got left at the altar.

He's careful with me at first, but the thing is I don't want careful. I want to feel alive. The alcohol inside me is buzzing like crazy.

My hands find his hair. I pull him up to meet my eyes.

"Don't be gentle," I say.

His eyes darken and his jaw tightens, and then he's not gentle anymore.

He grips my thighs and pushes them apart, settling Misseen them like he belongs there. His mouth finds my neck, my shoulder, the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me gasp. His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, and I match his energy with my own.

I claw at his back. I bite his shoulder. I pull his hair.

He groans against my throat, low and guttural, and the sound goes straight to my cunt.

He enters me without warning, and I cry out, arching off the bed. He pauses, just for a moment, his forehead pressed against mine, breathing hard.

"Okay?" he asks.

I nod amd he doesn't even wait anymore. He starts ti thrust, and I stop thinking.

I stop thinking about Derek and Mara and the look on my father's face when he slapped me. I stop thinking about the guests laughing and the screen flashing and the life I spent two years building crumbling to ash. I stop thinking about everything except the rhythm of his body against mine, the heat of his skin, the way he fills every empty space inside me until I can't remember what it felt like to be hollow.

He takes me apart piece by piece, and I let him.

I let him because I don't know how to put myself back together.

I let him because for a few blessed hours, I don't have to be the good daughter or the obedient fiancée or the girl who always does the right thing. I can just be. Just exist. Just feel.

His hand finds mine. He threads our fingers together, pressing them into the mattress beside my head, and something about that small gesture undoes me completely.

I shatter.

I come apart beneath him with a cry that sounds almost like his name, even though I don't know what it is. He follows moments later, burying his face in my neck, gripping my neck so tight I know I'll have bruises.

I want the bruises. I want to remember this.

He rolls off me, and turns to the side without a word, and I appreciate it like crazy because I didn't want to speak.

I should leave, because this isn't where I'm supposed to be. But I don't.

I stay because I'm tired. Because I'm broken. Because for the first time in hours, I'm not thinking about walking into traffic or any of the other dark thoughts that have been circling my brain like vultures.

By the time I wake up, it's still dark, but it's morning already. About 5am.

The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He's still asleep beside me, one arm thrown over his head, dark hair falling across his forehead. In the dim light, he looks younger and less like the dangerous stranger who kissed me on the terrace and more like a man who just needed someone to hold.

I watch him for a long moment.

His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. His lips are slightly parted. There's a small scar on his jaw that I didn't notice last night, a thin white line that disappears into his stubble.

I wonder how he got it.

I wonder who he is.

I wonder what his name is.

But I don't wake him. I don't ask. Because this isn't about tomorrow or next week or any of the messy, complicated things that come after tonight.

This is about right now.

And right now, I need to leave.

I slip out of bed, my body aching in ways I haven't felt in years. My dress is on the floor, crumpled and ruined, but I put it on anyway. I don't have anything else.

I find my clutch on the nightstand. I count out some bills enough to cover what I imagine a room like this costs, and I place it on the dresser. I really don't want to owe anyone ever again.

I am about to leave, but something makes me turn back, just for a moment, to look at his sleeping form. The rise and fall of his chest. The slight frown on his face, even in sleep.

I sigh and walk away.

I guess people are still asleep because the lobby, elevator and streets are empty, but I don't care. I walk without even knowing where I'm going. I don't have a plan.

I don't have anything.

My parents won't want me back. Not after the scene I caused. Not after I embarrassed them in front of everyone who matters. Mara will have Derek. My mother will have her social standing. My father will have the Shen family's backing.

They don't need me.

They never did.

The thought should hurt more than it does. But I'm so tired of hurting. I'm so tired of feeling like I'm the one who has to be grateful for scraps of affection, for conditional love, for a life that was never really mine.

I pass the bridge before I realize where I am.

The old pedestrian bridge with rustedt-iron railings overlooking the river. I've been here before, years ago, back when I still naive. I used to stand on this spot and imagine my future. A happy ending with Derek.

I was a fool.

The railing is cold against my palms. The water below is dark and churning, hungry, pulling the light from the city skyline into distorted shapes. I lean forward, just a little, just enough to feel the pull of the current.

The me who spent twenty-four years being good. Being grateful. Being the daughter who never caused trouble, who always said yes, who believed that if she was just perfect enough, someone would love her unconditionally.

I was wrong. Love isn't unconditional. Love is a transaction. Love is what you can give and what you can take and what you can leverage to get what you really want. Love is a lie.

I lean forward again. Closer this time. Close enough that I can feel the spray of the water on my face.

"Just one step," I whisper. "That's all it takes. And it will be over.”

I lift one foot off the ground and jump off, feeling the wind in my hair.