Chapter 13 #2
The crack sounds sharp, almost satisfying. A spiderweb of fractures radiates outward from my knuckles. Pain blooms hot and immediate across my hand, but I barely register it. The important part is the break on the glass. It splinters perfectly into pieces that no longer reflect me cleanly.
Shards stay in place for a second before one drops, hitting the wood floor with a brittle ping.
I sink to my knees among the fragments. My shoulders shake first, then the rest of me follows. Tears come fast and ugly, spilling down my cheeks, dripping onto the carpet. Humiliation burns hotter than the cut on my hand.
I hate how much I care. It's one new assistant, one calm boundary from Red, that's reduced me to crying on the floor of my own bedroom because he reminded me his world has rules I'm not allowed to touch.
Anger overpowers my shame. I get up, grab my pincushion, and return to the vanity. I sit down and pick up a pin.
Don't do it.
You're going too far.
I'll feel better.
Red will be mad.
Don't show him.
"Ah!" I shriek and stab the pin in the broken lipstick. Then I take several more, doing the same thing, but it doesn't help.
So I take a safety pin, lift my dress, and close my eyes. I push it into my thigh, and a sob gets caught in my throat. Tears fall on my hand, but I pick up another pin and push it next to the other one, repeating it until there are a dozen pins in my thigh, and the sharp pain dulls to throbs.
Why can't I stop doing this?
I stare at the pins stuck in my thigh and wail, hating myself and how I can't control my own actions. I wipe my face with the back of my wrist, smearing mascara and lipstick across my skin.
My hand throbs now, a steady pulse, blood welling in a thin line across two knuckles. Hiccups replace my sobs. I stare at the jagged cut until the red bead swells and drops onto my dress, staining the green fabric darker.
It takes a long time until my breath evens. The chaos inside me doesn't disappear; it condenses, sharpening into something clearer and colder.
Red set the rules. His professional life stays separate. His decisions stay his. Fine. He drew the line.
But why didn't he tell me about her?
I stand slowly, careful of the glass, and walk to the bathroom.
Cold water stings when I rinse my hand under the tap.
The cut isn't deep. It's shallow enough to stop bleeding with pressure.
I wrap it in gauze anyway, tight enough to remind me it's there.
I grit my teeth and pull the pins out of my thigh and step into the shower, keeping my hand away from the water.
He wants boundaries. He wants control.
I turn off the water, dry myself off, and return to the bedroom. The shattered mirror catches the afternoon light, throwing fractured pieces of me across the walls.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out my phone.
If he wants walls between us, I'll show him what happens when those walls vanish.
We're not supposed to text, but I don't care anymore. I'm tired of hiding anyway.
Me: I need space.
My finger trembles when I press send. The message delivers. Read receipt pops up almost immediately.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
I turn the phone face down on the nightstand without waiting for his reply.
The room stays quiet except for the faint drip of the bathroom faucet I forgot to turn off all the way. I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the ache in my hand matching the one in my chest.
If boundaries are what Red needs, I'll give him the opposite. I'll erase them. I'll walk through every line he draws until he understands what it costs to keep me on the outside.
The thought settles deep, steady now, no longer frantic. I close my eyes. My breathing slows. My phone vibrates once, twice. I don't move to check it.
Let him wait.
Let him wonder.
If he wants control, I'll show him how it feels when it slips away.
I lie on the bed for another hour, staring at the ceiling cracks until they blur into nothing. My thigh throbs under fresh bandages, a dull reminder of how far I let myself spiral.
I sit up, ignoring the ache in my hand, and open my laptop. The screen glows blue in the dim room. I search AI image generators that allow for erotic photos and decide it's time to show Red what can happen if he takes me for granted.
I work quickly, methodically, watching each image build on the screen until five perfect ones stare back at me.
The first shows a woman who looks exactly like me, with her hair loose and wild, in her mid-twenties, wearing only black lace lingerie.
I kneel on a massive king-size bed in a luxury hotel suite with the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Chicago skyline behind me. City lights glitter in soft focus across the night.
A very muscular Brax stands behind me, with dark hair and a face turned just enough that only his profile is visible, but even Red won't doubt it's him.
One large hand is wrapped tightly in my hair, yanking my head back so my throat arches.
His other hand rests on my neck, not squeezing, just holding and possessive.
Low, dramatic lighting carves shadows across my bare skin, and the mirrored headboard doubles our reflections.
Dark walnut furniture gleams, a crystal chandelier hangs overhead, and two half-empty champagne flutes sit on the nightstand. The mood is raw, screaming possession, surrender, and obscene wealth.
The second image shifts the angle. I'm bent forward over a dark wood desk, my wrists crossed behind my back and restrained by cuffs.
My skirt is shoved up to my waist, and there are no panties in sight.
Brax's free hand presses firmly between my shoulder blades, keeping my chest flat against the polished surface.
City lights pour through the glass wall, turning sweat on my skin silver.
My face is turned toward the viewer, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth open in a silent cry or moan.
Brax's face stays mostly hidden, but the set of his jaw, the broad line of his shoulders, and the faint scar visible on his forearm are once again unmistakable to anyone who's ever looked up his photos.
The third captures me straddling him in a deep leather armchair pulled close to the window. His hands grip my hips hard enough to leave marks, fingers digging into flesh. My head's thrown back, throat fully exposed, long hair cascading down my spine.
The mirrored wall behind us multiplies the scene, creating endless reflections of skin, tension, and exposure.
Every image drips money, secrecy, and dark indulgence. Every detail echoes the power games Red keeps hidden behind his calm voice and closed office door. Each photo displays control handed over, vulnerability laid bare, and boundaries erased in shadows.
I select the sharpest five. None have a clear shot of the man's face, but there are enough clues to make Red think it's Brax and make his stomach lurch.
I download the set, open a photo editor, nudge the lighting so the city glow catches the sheen of sweat on my skin just right, and deepen the bruises forming under gripping fingers.
Then I print them on matte card stock at the twenty-four-hour shop three blocks away and have them delivered within the hour.
When the courier arrives, I stare at the photos, thinking about how ironic it is that I feel nothing toward Brax anymore when he used to be my everything. The only person I want is Red. But he doesn't want to let me into his life. If he did, he would have told me about Amy, wouldn't he?
I slide them into a plain black envelope with Red's office and no return address. Inside, I put one small card, handwritten in block letters using the same red lipstick I smeared across the mirror:
How does this make you feel, Dr. Mercer?
I seal it, schedule another courier pickup, and hand them off to the zit-faced college kid who bangs on my door within minutes.
When I shut the door, I lean against it, my pulse beating harder, breath turning short. I've crossed a line. I know it, but that's the point.
I don't check my phone when I get inside. I don't wait for his call, his text, his furious knock. Whatever comes next, it comes on my terms now.
I crawl under the covers. The bandages on my hand and thigh itch, but I ignore them. Sleep pulls at me fast and heavy.
Before my eyes close, one last thought surfaces, calm and certain.
He wanted boundaries.
Now he gets to live inside them.
Let him feel what it's like when control slips through his fingers.
Let him wonder who touched what used to be his.
Exhausted, I close my shades, and darkness swallows the room. I cry while smiling into the pillow.