Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I see my own face, twisted and lost, eyes rolled so far up with pleasure you can almost see the whites.
“Yes, claim my pussy,” the woman on the screen pants. “It’s yours.”
“You know what this means,” Thomas growls between deep thrusts. “I’m your first, baby, so your cunt’s now molded to the shape of my cock. You’ll never be satisfied with another man.”
She whines a little, arching her back, unable to reply because of the pleasure the man gives her.
I can’t look away. Not at the video, not at Thomas.
My bag slips from my shoulder, thumping softly to the carpet. I snatch at the strap by reflex, the jolt so violent it nearly snaps my wrist. My throat is sandpaper. I try to swallow, but nothing moves.
“I—” The word breaks in half. “Where did you—how did you—”
He doesn’t blink. “I was updating your laptop. You asked for help remember? This was in your cloud, Andie. It was labeled with the date of our first encounter here.”
I clutch the bag to my chest, suddenly cold all over. “I thought I deleted it,” I say, stupidly. “I deleted that months ago.”
He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still facing up, the video still running. The sound keeps going: my own voice, begging for more, the obscene slap of our bodies together, a whimper I don’t even recognize as me.
The penthouse is exactly as it should be—marble counters catching the last blue smears of daylight, a row of empty glasses on the bar, a bottle of whiskey on the side table, two tumblers set out, one still full and untouched. The TV is off, the room too clean, too orderly. Even the city lights seem to have dimmed, the world outside watching us through a lens of indifference.
I look at Thomas. I mean, really look. He isn’t just angry. He’s gone somewhere else, somewhere far away and windless, where nothing moves or matters. His hands are in fists now, the knuckles white. His shoulders are hunched, the set of his jaw tight.
I want to say something, but all I can manage is, “Thomas, I swear—”
He shakes his head, slow and final. “Why didn’t you tell me that you filmed us that first night?” His voice is flat, barely even there.
“I forgot about it. I didn’t—” The tears start without warning, brimming in my eyes, blurring the room so that all the sharp corners go soft and nothing is real except the heat in my face and the taste of salt in my mouth. “I never even showed it to anyone. I just— I don’t know. I deleted it right after—”
His eyes flick down to the phone, then back up. He doesn’t buy it. “You made a promise,” he says, and now the cold is gone, replaced by something that burns, slow and deep. “No more secrets, Andie. We agreed on that. In the fucking diner, remember?”
I nod, even though I can’t really remember anything anymore except the feeling of my own shame.
He gestures at the phone, not even touching it. “Was this for the bet, too? Or just for your collection?”
The words hit like a slap. “No,” I say, voice shrill and cracking. “No, I swear, well yes, it was originally for the bet, but like I said, I never showed it to anyone—”
He cuts me off. “You filmed us having sex. Without asking me. And you did it the time when I thought it wasn’t just going to be another random fuck.”
He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t move. He just stands in the center of the room, perfectly still, letting the words rot in the air.
My knees are shaking now, the kind of shake that feels like it’s coming up from the floorboards. I wipe at my cheeks, and my vision is nothing but tears and the color of the rug and the glitter of city lights through glass.
“Thomas,” I say again, helpless. “I’m sorry.”
He lets out a laugh so small I almost miss it. “I bet you are.”
I want to cross the distance between us, to touch him, to say something that will erase the last five minutes. But the look on his face makes it impossible.
I stand there, in the half-light, shaking, while the video plays on the table, repeating my own humiliation back to me. The penthouse has never felt so large or so empty.
The city glitters, and I can’t tell if it’s mocking me or just bored.
I swipe at my eyes again with the back of my hand, but the tears just keep coming.
He watches me, not moving.
And the only thing in the room that makes any noise is my own voice on his cell, echoing over and over, obscene and ultimately, my downfall.
I stand there and watch my own humiliation, doubled and tripled, a funhouse mirror of my worst mistakes. My voice keeps looping through the penthouse, echoing off every slick, expensive surface. I want to scream, or claw at the phone until it breaks, or run back in time and strangle the girl who thought this was a good idea.