TRACY
By the time my shift ended at 6:00 PM, I was exhausted. I walked toward the exit, the winter air beginning to bite at my skin, promising myself that this was the end. I was going to go home, eat his food, and never look back.
Then, my phone rang.
I stared at the caller ID: Shelby. My heart did a cruel flip. I had promised I wouldn't answer. I had promised I was taking back control. But even over a cellular signal, the man held a leash on my soul.
"Yes?" I answered, my voice sounding smaller than I wanted.
"Get dressed," he said. No greeting, just that familiar, dominant tone. "I'm taking you somewhere special tonight. I'll be at your door in an hour."
"Shelby, I... I can't. I'm tired. I was going to—"
"An hour, Tracy. Wear something nice."
The line went dead. I stood on the sidewalk, my mouth open. I wanted to scream at the sky. I wanted to throw my phone into the gutter. He had so much control over me it was sickening. And yet, instead of walking toward the bus stop, I found myself running.
I ran all the way to my apartment, my lungs burning. I burst through my door and threw my bag onto the bed, immediately tearing through my wardrobe. The sadness was still there, but it was being drowned out by a rush of electric need to please him. I scattered dresses across the floor, my mind racing. Where was he taking me? Why was he doing this?
I was a mix of contradictions: heartbroken, angry, and desperately excited. I became aware that the "Ice Queen" was being transformed into whatever Shelby wanted her to be as I took a deep emerald dress off a hanger.
I was too exhausted for the usual ritual of transformation. The internal war had sapped my energy, leaving me with nothing but a raw, hollowed-out exhaustion. I didn't reach for the foundation or the contour kit; I simply swiped a few hurried coats of mascara onto my lashes and pulled on the emerald dress. It felt like a costume now—a beautiful, sparkling lie.
He was there in no time. When I stepped onto the sidewalk, the Mercedes was still, a dark predator waiting in the shadows. He hopped out, moving with that effortless, infuriating grace to hold the door for me. As I slid into the leather seat, the sandalwood hit me again, and for a second, my focus shifted.
"You look..." He paused, his gaze tracing the tired lines of my face with a look that felt dangerously like tenderness. "You look perfect, Tracy. Every version of you is my favorite."
He kept staring throughout the drive, his compliments flowing like the wine from the night before. He praised my hands, my profile, and the way the streetlights caught the gold in my eyes. We went to a diner that was the definition of "special"—fancy, cozy, and so intimate that the rest of the world seemed to vanish at the door. We ate in a comfortable rhythm, the conversation light, almost domestic. It was a beautiful, polished mask of a date, and I let myself hide behind it.
But the moment we reached his apartment, the mask shattered.
We didn't even make it past the foyer. The door had barely hissed shut before his hands were on me, and mine were on him. It was a frantic, desperate hunger, a need to reclaim the skin-to-skin connection that the sterile hospital day had tried to erase.
This time, I didn't let him lead. I pushed him back against the wall, my fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt. I wanted to show him that the "top of the class" girl didn't just study—she mastered everything she touched. I took control, my movements confident and predatory, matching his intensity beat for beat. The session was electric, a blur of sweat and tangled limbs.
I had him moaning my name, a low, gut-wrenching sound that vibrated through the floorboards. I was certain the neighbors could hear us, but I didn't care. He kept whispering between gasps, telling me he loved me, swearing I was the best he'd ever had, and that I was the only thing he could see.
Afterward, the air in the room was heavy with the scent of us. We eventually untangled ourselves, laughing softly, and made our way to the kitchen, half-dressed and glowing, looking for something to munch on. I felt like I was finally safe. I felt like the "Ice Queen" had found her home.
The world ended after that.
The front door opened with a click. It sounded more like an arrival than a break-in. A woman entered with such assurance that it made my blood freeze. She didn't hesitate or glance around. She was fully aware of her surroundings. She walked right past us and toward the bedroom, not even acknowledging my presence, treating me like a piece of furniture.
"Shelby," she commanded in a chilly, sharp voice. "In here. Now."
With a half-eaten snack still in my hand, I stood motionless. It was a vivid, cruel hallucination that looked like a nightmare. I waited for someone to wake me up by tapping my shoulder, but the truth was much more audible. I could hear her screaming from the bedroom.
"You couldn't even hold yourself for one week!" she said in a venomous voice that echoed throughout the hallway. "You're already seeing the new girl while I'm away for a few days? Shelby, you are so cheap! You are pathetic.
The words struck me like blows to the body. A week. The exact time I've been at Larissa. I could feel my heart becoming a cold, lifeless stone and my blood drying up in my veins. I didn't stay to listen to his defenses. I left before I could witness his grovel.
I moved like a ghost. I gathered what was left of my clothes—my emerald dress and my underwear—and clutched them to my chest. I didn't even put my shoes on. I walked out of that luxury apartment, out of that "home" that was never mine, and stepped onto the freezing pavement barefoot.