Chapter Twelve
Serena
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What the hell is wrong with me?
The shame creeps in like poison under my skin, hot and crawling, sinking deep into my bones. I can still feel his touch. His belt. His fucking fingers.
Gosh.
My cheeks are burning, my legs still shaking as I try to catch my breath. My hands tremble as I fix my skirt and smooth down my blouse, but nothing can fix what just happened. Nothing can undo the fact that I begged him, begged, to make me come, and he walked away.
Smirking.
Proud.
Like this was just some twisted game he’s winning, and I was the fool who never stood a chance.
How did I let this happen?
What was I thinking? Was I even thinking at all?
No, I was moaning. Grinding against him like a freaking animal. Letting him spank me until I was breathless and soaked, clenching around his fingers like I was already his. And then he left. Just like that.
No release.
No mercy.
Just a reminder: I told you I’d have you begging in no time.
And Gosh, he was right.
I feel sick.
I pull out my compact and try to fix my makeup, my lipstick smudged, my mascara slightly smeared under my eyes. I fluff my hair back into place, but it’s hopeless. I look like I’ve been fucked.
Only I haven’t.
Because he didn’t.
Because he chose not to.
Humiliation hits me like a truck, fast and brutal. I don’t know if I want to cry, scream, or crawl into a hole and stay there forever. I move to the door, peeking out like a criminal, praying no one’s standing outside.
What if someone heard me?
Oh my Gosh.
I moaned his name.
Loudly.
What if the guard was outside the whole time? What if someone walks by right now and smells what I smell, sex. Raw, unfulfilled, pathetic sex. Well… not sex.
I was shameless.
He was merciless.
And now I’m stuck in the aftermath of something I can’t even name.
I spray perfume around the office like I can erase what just happened, like I can drown it in vanilla and rosewood and pretend I’m still that composed girl who walked in here thinking she was in control.
I glance at the desk, where he had me bent over, legs shaking.
And then I see it.
The camera.
High in the corner.
CCTV.
Freaking hell.
I freeze, stomach dropping to my feet.
That footage exists. There might be video proof of me moaning, whimpering, grinding, begging. I want to throw up. I want to scream. I want to punch him in the face.
Freaking hell.
If my parents ever find out what just happened, they won’t kill me, they’ll erase me from existence. Fired? That’s inevitable. Exiled? Possibly. But knowing my father, he’d rather bury me under the patio and plant roses over the crime scene.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My father asked me, explicitly, to report on every interaction with him. The devil in a black t-shirt. The man whose name I now refuse to say because it tastes like shame and sex and humiliation all at once.
What am I supposed to tell my father?
“Hey Dad, today’s session went really well. I begged your prisoner to fuck me, got spanked over his desk like a schoolgirl in detention, and came close to orgasm before he left me dripping and humiliated.”
Yeah. Great chat. Over dinner, maybe.
Redness floods my face again, that molten-hot kind of shame that sticks to your bones. My stomach coils at the memory, the way he bent me over, his belt cracking against my skin, the way he slid his fingers inside me like he owned my body.
Shoo, devil thoughts. Shoo.
A knock rattles the door and every cell in my body goes rigid.
No. No. No. Please not now.
“Serena?” Ian’s voice. Oh shoot.
I scramble to straighten my clothes, checking my buttons, wiping at my mouth like I’m guilty, because I am. Ian steps inside, already analyzing the room like he smells sex in the air.
“Yes. We finished early,” I say, forcing the words out with a tight smile.
Not a total lie.
His eyes narrow. “Did he behave?”
Why does that question sound more like a trap than concern?
I nod too quickly. “Yes. Nothing interesting happened.”
Lie.
“I asked him a few questions about his thoughts, his stay here, basic assessment stuff.”
Lie.
“He wasn’t very responsive. Just one-word answers. Honestly, it was a little boring.”
Biggest lie I’ve ever told.
Ian stares at me for a beat too long, like he knows something is off but can’t quite place it. Finally, he checks his phone. “Alright. I’ll report that to your father. Let me know immediately if he says anything strange or threatening.”
That does it.
The pressure boiling inside me snaps and I cross my arms, tired of pretending. “What’s the deal with you, my father, and him? Why do you all care so much about every damn word that comes out of his mouth?”
Ian blinks, visibly surprised by my tone. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I’m just following orders. My father told me to keep a close eye, so... I do.”
So John is involved too. Of course.
We step out of the room and instantly the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I feel it before I see it, that unmistakable, heavy weight of his gaze.
He’s watching me.
There he is. Lorenzo. Standing near the window like a king in a cage, cigarette in hand, the smoke curling around his head like it’s afraid of him too. His eyes lock on mine, dark and intense and far too amused.
His smirk? Devil-made.
The freaking audacity, like I’m his dirty little secret and he’s proud of it.
I glare at him, hard. Don’t look away first, I tell myself.
He winks.
Asshole.
I tear my gaze from his and storm past without acknowledging him again. If I look back, I’ll melt into the floor. If I speak, I’ll scream.
Today didn’t happen.
Today didn’t freaking happen.
That’s my mantra now. That’s how I survive the rest of the week.
I check my phone. No texts from Sienna. Probably working. And honestly, I don’t even know what I’d tell her if she did message me. Hey, guess what? I begged a convicted criminal to fuck me in a government building. How’s Japan?
No. I’m not ready to share that meltdown yet.
I drop Lorenzo’s file at the front desk, ignoring the subtle glances I get from the reception staff. I don’t care. Let them talk. Let them assume. I need caffeine or something stronger. But for now, my favorite coffee shop will do.
It’s a 10-minute drive, just long enough to replay the entire degrading interaction in my mind on a loop. Great. Free humiliation with every mile.
When I pull up, I spot a familiar car in the parking lot. My mother’s. I think nothing of it, until I walk in and see her sitting at a table with a man who cannot be older than twenty-five. Sharp jawline, fitted dress shirt, smug expression.
What the actual hell?
I make a beeline to the table. “Do I even want to know?” My voice is flat. Sharp.
My mother flinches, her eyes wide like I caught her with her hand in the cookie jar, or someone else’s pants. The guy doesn’t even flinch. He just smirks. And checks me out.
Oh hell no.
“Serena, honey,” she says too sweetly, standing to give me a kiss on the cheek like we’re in some Hallmark film. “What are you doing here?”
“Buying coffee?” I gesture around the café. “What are you doing here? And with him?”
She laughs, nervously. “Oh, don’t be silly. Kyle is just an acquaintance.”
“Acquaintance?” I arch a brow.
The guy stands, offers me his hand like we’re on a job interview. “Kyle. Nice to meet you.”
He’s good looking, I’ll give her that. But my mother’s married, and I don’t care how dead the marriage is, this isn’t brunch, it’s betrayal.
“Are you sleeping with my mother?” I ask him point-blank, and she visibly pales. “She’s married, you know.”
Kyle just grins like the cocky son of a bitch he is. “I know.”
“Serena!” my mother gasps, looking around in embarrassment. “You’re being ridiculous!”
“No,” I reply coolly. “You are.”
And just like that, my appetite for coffee, and everything else, is gone.
“Pleasure meeting you,” I say, flatly, and I walk right out.
I sit in my car, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding me together. It’s not just Lorenzo and this morning’s mess. It’s not just seeing my mother getting eye-fucked by a guy who could be her son.
It’s the fact that when Sienna’s not around, I feel... alone. Not the peaceful kind of alone. The kind that makes your chest hollow and your throat tight. I don’t have a crowd of people or a group chat to rant in. I have her. Just her.
And when she’s gone, everything feels louder. Sharper. Emptier.
My phone buzzes, and I jolt, praying it’s her.
Hottest Bestfriend: I’m back early!
God bless this woman.
ME: Why?? I’m so excited to see you xx
Hottest Bestfriend: Photoshoot’s wrapped. I visited Japan. It was beautiful. But I missed home. And you.
Hottest Bestfriend: Breakfast tomorrow?
I’m supposed to work tomorrow. I’m supposed to walk into that hellhole and sit across from the man who made me beg, then walked away like I was some kind of plaything.
Yeah, no. Tomorrow I’m going to be very, very sick. Probably contagious. Possibly dying.
ME: See you tomorrow at 10am xx
She sends me a heart emoji, and for the first time today, I smile.
It’s almost 2 p.m. Where did the time go?
I’m not in the mood to face my father. And since Ian said he’d report the boring session to him, I decide to treat myself to something soft. A spa evening. Something to erase today’s insanity from my skin and maybe, if I’m lucky, my brain.
Before I turn off my phone, I shoot off a quick message to my supervisor, Blakely:
ME: Hi, unfortunately I’m not feeling well. I’ll need to reschedule tomorrow’s appointments.
Coward? Probably. But even cowards need survival strategies.
And I need at least 48 hours to figure out how to face Lorenzo Moretti without turning into a puddle of shame and hormones.