Maddox
Stella Byron was too traumatised not to have a past.
I scratched at the surface first. No social media accounts. No digital footprint. Unusual for someone her age.
So I trawled through her parents’ profiles instead, following comment threads until I found something worth pulling. I sent enough friend requests through a fake account to reconstruct the timeline.
Two, to be precise.
High school and university.
It was hard to reconcile the cardigan-wearing, shapelessly dressed young woman I’d met with the version I uncovered.
Then I found the video.
It wasn’t just a gang bang. It was a queue. A line of men waiting to use her.
I ignored everything else and focused on her face. Then her eyes.
Blown out.
Unfocused.
She wasn’t coherent.
No. That wasn’t just alcohol.
Anger flared hot in my chest, and I slammed my fist against my desk, barely registering the clatter of objects shifting on its surface.
Did she even know she’d been drugged?
It was common enough now, on campus and off. Convictions never matched the frequency.
Her parents were fucking awful. They wanted it buried. I’d remained neutral when Stella described the rules her mother had imposed, the conduct, the restrictions. But the entire arrangement was oppressive. Intrusive. Punitive.
I ground my molars together until my jaw ached.
There was something vulnerable in Stella’s cat-like eyes and now I understood it. She left my house relaxed and calm. Part of me wanted to message her and ask how she was, but it would be a mistake this early on.
I sighed and spent the rest of the night sending takedown notices and search field removal tools to remove her content online.
It wasn't hard searching up redhead content and finding all the URLs.
The only issue would be if people re-uploaded the content.
Fuckers.
?
?
?
Over the next few weeks, Stella improved. She held eye contact now. The dark circles beneath her eyes had begun to fade, and the tentative smiles came more easily.
There was nothing she disclosed that surprised me.
When she excused herself to use the bathroom, I reached for her phone where she’d left it on the arm of the couch.
It took a moment.
I keyed in the passcode.
Month and year of birth. I’d watched her unlock it enough times to catch the pattern. Simple, but memorable—for both of us.
The screen opened.
I moved quickly, forwarding the viral link from my phone and uploading it to hers. The progress bar slid across the screen while the house remained silent around me.
Done.
I deleted the message thread, locked the phone, and placed it back exactly where she’d left it.
By the time Stella returned, I was already seated, flipping through my notes.
They were messy. Abbreviated. My handwriting reduced to quick strokes and shorthand.
My observations weren’t entirely professional.
No.
My sweet girl was a rare find.
And she was mine.
?
?
?
The dot crept steadily closer to my house, but I resisted the urge to stand and greet her. I had given George the night off, preferring the quiet. A small smile touched my mouth when she didn’t ring the doorbell immediately.
6:52.
She was early.
I took a long, slow sip of my scotch, savouring the amber liquid as the warmth slid down my throat. Years of self-control made moments like this manageable, but a man still had his limits.
Five weeks of encouraging Stella to reveal herself piece by piece had been… excruciating.
My suspicions had been correct. She never knew that she had been targeted.
Eventually, she had told me about the videos and the destruction that followed.
The humiliation. The collapse of everything she had thought stable.
She’d looked so small when she spoke of it, head bowed, fingers twisting around the strap of her purse as she tried to sink deeper into the couch, as though disappearing into the leather might spare her from reliving it.
The shame didn’t belong to her.
It never had.
No one would ever take advantage of her again.
Well, except for me.
But I wasn’t here to break her.
I was here to give her what she truly needed.
A man who understood her. A man capable of meeting every one of her needs without the degradation she had endured before.
The bell rang.
I finished the last of my drink and set the empty glass on my desk as I left the office, straightening my cuffs as I moved down the hall.
My Friday night was looking very promising.
When I opened the door, she looked momentarily surprised to see me, but she stepped inside willingly.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly as she moved past me.
“Good evening, Stella,” I replied, closing the door behind her. “How was your week?”
Those green-yellow eyes flicked up to meet mine before darting away again.
Interesting.
She handed me her journal. That alone told me it had to be good. She pressed the notebook into my hand without looking at me, her fingers retreating almost immediately. A bright flush crept across her cheeks.
Oh.
She’d been a naughty girl this week.
I opened the journal, letting the pages fall naturally beneath my thumb.
“Take a seat in my office,” I said smoothly. “I’ll join you shortly.”
I watched her as she shuffled down the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched, the familiar mixture of anticipation and embarrassment written plainly in the way she moved. When she reached the office door, she hesitated for the briefest moment before slipping inside and disappearing from view.
The house fell quiet again.
I lifted the journal and began tracing her handwriting with my finger, following each line carefully, unwilling to miss a single word she’d chosen to give me.