Chapter 9
Waking up after a stream never gets less sore.
My hips are tight, my thighs ache in that delicious way that reminds me of what I did last night, how I pushed my body to its limits and then some. I stretch in my oversized king bed, silk sheets cool against my heated skin, and blindly fumble for my phone.
Seeing I still have plenty of time before my first class, I close my eyes for a beat, the shadows of last night flickering like sparks behind my lids. The way he watched me. His messages—restrained and raw all at once—like he couldn’t help himself.
Soon, BegForMe will be the one begging. He’s exactly where I want him—tangled in my web.
And still… some days I wonder if revenge will ever dull the ache he left buried in me.
I’d wanted him to stand by me that day in Jonathan’s penthouse, with everyone looking at me like I was my mother’s daughter, I needed him to fight for me. For us. Maybe I was as foolish as Jen always said, thinking he’d burn down the world before letting them cast me out.
Instead, he couldn’t even look at me as he stood there and that silence has been screaming in my head ever since.
Being exiled from my home stung, but that betrayal…
that betrayal cut deeper than anything else.
After everything we’d shared, every night spent voicing secrets and fears, every scar we’d stitched together, the fact that he could so easily believe the worst of me twisted my stomach into a knot of fire and ice.
My chest ached with the memory of his eyes—not seeing me, not trusting me—and I felt hollow, like a part of me had been pried out and left to bleed in the dark.
And yet, even now, when I think of him, my body betrays me.
Heat blossoms across my skin, my pulse drumming so loud it feels like it might echo in the room.
For one fragile, desperate heartbeat, I crave the curve of his arms around me, the familiar weight, the way he made me feel whole, like I belonged somewhere in the world.
It’s humiliating—humiliating and electric—how I still want the man who clearly never loved me more than his duty. My fingers clench, my jaw tightens, and I want to curse the way my body remembers him, remembers everything we once had.
I force out a shaky sigh, pressing my palms against my thighs as if to contain the chaos inside me. I shove the thought aside, burying the longing under a veneer of control. There’s no room for that softness anymore—not for me, not for anyone. Not even him.
I shower, blow out my hair, and decide to go full glam—heavy base, smudged liner, a soft gold sheen across my lids. I curl some lazy waves through my hair and spritz on Maison Francis Kurkdjian’s Baccarat Rouge before turning my attention to my wardrobe.
Today calls for that vintage Miu Miu slip dress I found in a little-known vintage shop last week, paired with white slingbacks and a cropped jacket to soften the effect. One look in the mirror and I snap a few pics and blow myself a kiss before shouldering my bag and heading out.
The hallway smells of old parquet floors and the neighbour’s cigarettes. On the stairs, an elderly man struggles with his shopping bags. I pause to help carry them down before heading to my local coffee shop, where the barista already has my iced oat latte ready before I even speak.
“Merci, chéri,” I say, flashing him a smile, before slipping back into the bustling streets, weaving past a flower stand spilling with dahlias and peonies.
The walk to the university is so ingrained it’s practically muscle memory. I could do it in stilettos, blackout drunk, hell, I have. My body moves before my brain catches up, legs carrying me forward while my mind loops back to him.
My thoughts snag on the same vicious cycle—the games, the secrecy, pretending we don’t know exactly who’s on the other end.
Whether humiliating him, bleeding him dry, will ever dull the ache that twists through my chest. Some nights, I wonder if I’m only tying myself closer to him, not breaking free, if every orgasm on camera is another link in the chain binding me to the man I’m supposed to despise.
I imagine his fiancée. Does she know he’s addicted to his stepsister in lace and stilettos? That he pays thousands to watch as I twist my piercings and bite my lip, eyes half-closed, as if I could come just from thinking about him? The thought makes my stomach tighten, hot and hollow at once.
Part of me wants him tortured by it. Part of me wants him on his knees, begging for forgiveness.
And another part—the softest, most vulnerable part—wants him at my door, telling me he made a mistake. That this time, he’d fight for me. That he’d do anything to make things right, and to hell with his marriage contract or his dad’s expectations.
But I’m not that girl anymore. I won't wait. I don’t need rescuing, and I can’t afford that kind of weakness—not in a world that’s already shown me how easily it chews you up, strips you bare, and spits you out like its nothing.
“Lily!”
I barely have a chance to turn before Isabella wraps me in a hug, air kissing my cheeks, her perfume enveloping me. She pulls back, quirking a razor-thin eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Busy girl,” she purrs. “How was your weekend?”
I arch a brow. “Productive.”
She laughs, linking her arm through mine.
Isabella is a poster child for old money—razor-thin, immaculately styled, always sporting some new piece from a designer’s unreleased collection.
She’s also my closest friend here, and from the moment we met on our first day of classes seven months ago, she made it her mission to help me adapt to Lyon.
Luckily, choosing one of the few international universities saved me the embarrassment of completely butchering the language. Still, having Isabella to teach me the basics—and occasionally drag me out of a café before I ordered something unpronounceable—has been a godsend.
“You should’ve come to Club Nouveau. The DJ was mediocre, but the boys? Magnifique,” she teases, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.
“Oh, darling, you wouldn’t have stood a chance if I had.” I sip my coffee as we stride through the wrought iron gates of the university.
She gasps, playfully scandalized. “Rude.”
As she chatters about some model-turned-DJ she nearly went home with, I only half-listen, still caught on images of Matt and how easily he slips under my skin.
“Are you even listening to me?” Isabella groans, tugging my wrist just before we enter the design studios.
“Of course. You almost went home with a walking red flag in vintage Versace. What’s new about that?” I retort playfully, dodging her bony elbow and tossing my empty cup in the bin before heading into our first class. Spying Jamie, the missing third of our trio, we make a beeline to his table.
Madame Adele André is already at the front of the studio, heels clicking, eyes sharp beneath her signature blunt fringe. She’s only a decade older than us and already a legend in the fashion industry—a woman who can silence an entire room with a single flick of her perfectly manicured hand.
“Today we finalise the designs,” she announces, her clipped French accent making every word land with surgical precision. Her gaze sweeps across the tables, measuring, assessing, cutting through excuses before anyone can breathe them into existence.
“After today, there is no more time for re-dos. I want clean, complete base patterns. Pieces you are confident enough to begin manipulating next week.”
A couple of students straighten instinctively. Someone swallows hard. Her words settle over the room like a deadline made of stone.
This is my favourite part—the quiet arithmetic of creativity, the geometry of design.
By the end of the two-hour class, my fingers are raw from tracing seam allowances and redrawing darts, but my pattern is perfect.
The back has a single bias-cut panel that’ll skim the model’s spine like a whisper, and I’ve draped it to move like water.
I can already see it in duchess silk—champagne pink, maybe with a matte finish to contrast a pearl-threaded bustier.
“You’ve got a look like you’re in love,” Jamie drawls as we spill out into the courtyard, the sun bouncing off pale stone buildings, scooters whining in the distance.
“Just imagining the design brought to life,” I confess, sliding my sunglasses into place. The late afternoon warmth settles over me like silk. “Though it does mean I need to sort out a model.”
“You still haven’t picked your model?” Isabella demands, clutching her sketchbook to her chest as her eyes go wide.
“Lily, it’s been weeks. The showcase is less than two months away.
We should have measurements by now. At this point, you’ll end up with some kid who doesn’t know which end of the runway is which. ”
“I had someone and I started making it with her measurements in mind,” I say carefully, fingers fussing with the frame of my glasses. “But Adele vetoed it.”
“Who?” Jamie leans closer, his voice dropping, and his eyes glinting with mischief beneath artfully mussed blond hair.
“Moi.”
Isabella lets out a strangled noise and immediately launches into a passionate rant about how designers should create the fantasy, not become it.
Jamie, however, only smirks. “She’s not wrong. But… if anyone could pull it off, it’s you.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Especially in champagne silk. Thigh slit?”
“Mid-thigh, corset bodice, with a structured hip detail.”
As I paint the vision for them, Jamie and Isabella exchange a look that makes something hot and dangerous curl low in my belly.
“I say go for it,” Jamie declares, throwing his feet up on the bench. “Model it yourself. Make them uncomfortable. Make it unforgettable.”
Later that evening, I’m curled up on the couch, a chipped bowl full of pasta balanced on my knee. The TV glows in the corner, flickering images of French reality stars screaming at one another over dinner plates.
But my mind keeps circling the same two phrases.
Make them uncomfortable. Make it unforgettable.
Could I do it? Dare I?
A year ago, I wouldn’t have even considered it. But now, the idea of creating a scandal has excitement thumbing through my veins. Maybe the only way to survive the pain is to set it ablaze and let it become art.
I glance around my flat—pattern papers littering the table, a half-finished hem draped over the chair, my sketchbook open to a rough outline of my design.
It smells like coffee and faintly of lemon floor cleaner.
My life has become scraps of silk, late-night streaming sessions, and the hollow echo of a man’s absence I wish I didn’t still crave.
I hate that I still love him. It constricts around my ribcage until I can barely breathe.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, dragging me out of my thoughts.
Incoming request: Private session (Recurring)
Username: BegForMe
Details: Hour-long stream, four times a week, ￡5k a stream
The name makes my pulse thud.
I stare at the notification for a long moment, thumb hovering above the accept button. There’s a sharp twist in my chest, equal parts rage and longing.
If only my mother could see me now. Living in exile, using the body she hated and weaponising my stepbrother’s obsession one high-definition moan at a time.
Let the games begin.