Chapter 34
Sitting in a taxi heading back to my flat, my head throbs with the weight of last night’s revelations.
The truth has a way of breaking quietly, like glass under pressure, shards I can’t stop from cutting deeper every time I breathe.
I press my forehead to the cool window, but it does nothing to soothe the storm raging behind my ribs.
Every word, every fracture in what I thought I knew, replays on a loop I can’t silence.
Cutting our weekend short was the logical thing to do. Still, the ache of it settles heavy in my chest—only one day with Cora and Abbie, when I needed them most. One stolen breath of normalcy before everything fell apart again.
Part of me wants to disappear into the noise of the city. To vanish. To hide. To pretend none of it matters.
And then there’s the other part, the one I’ve been trying like hell to ignore for months. The one that aches for London, for the faces I left behind. For him. For Matt.
That part still believes coming back isn’t a fantasy, that maybe home isn’t a place, but a person. That where there’s a will, there’s a way.
But that part of me doesn’t factor in the betrayal, the lies, the blood that runs through both our histories. It forgets the mess of broken trust and the promises we shattered. It ignores the truth, that forgiveness and second chances don’t come easily in our world.
Can I really return without tearing down the walls I built to survive? And if I do—if I let that world touch me again—will I survive what comes next?
Because deep down, I know I can’t stay away forever.
I know I’ll have to face all of it—my choices, his, the world that’s been waiting for me to stop running.
And yet, even with uncertainty pressing against my ribs, I can’t help the pull I feel.
Toward Matt, and to the life I’ve only allowed myself to want in fragments.
I was never na?ve enough to think things were truly over—not between me and Matt, and certainly not between me and the Points. There are too many unanswered questions, too many ghosts still whispering my name. But a girl could dream.
Inside, my flat smells the same—coffee, faint cedar, a trace of the lavender candle I was burning before I left. Everything is in its place, but the stillness makes the silence roar in my ears. I shed my coat, drop my bags, and slump against the door, letting the quiet settle around me.
Classes. Playing mole. Assignments. Taking down a sex trafficking ring. My summer showcase piece. Matt’s plans run alongside mine like twin tracks I’m supposed to follow without stumbling. It feels impossible but maybe that’s the point. One wrong move, and the choice will be made for me.
And isn’t that what I’m hoping for, even if I can’t say it aloud? The disappointment in Cora and Abbie’s eyes if I admitted I can’t see London ever being home again is enough to make my head spin at the best of times.
Pushing off the door and picking up my bags, I head into my room and let the repetitive nature of unpacking distract me. Each item I put away is a small act of control, a quiet rebellion against the storm Matt’s world is dragging me into.
My phone buzzes before I even finish the first drawer.
[Abbie changed the group chat name to Unholy Trinity]
I stare at the screen, the weight of their words settling deep in my chest. Even from Lyon, I can feel them rallying—circling close, ready to fight for me no matter the cost.
My thumb hovers over Matt’s contact before I can stop myself, traitorous fingers trembling. The screen feels too bright, too exposed, like it can see straight through me—every doubt, every fear, every part of me that still aches for him despite everything.
Hours later, with my bags unpacked and coursework caught up on, I pull open my laptop and set it up for the night.
The ritual is familiar: lighting, setting my tripod up and checking my camera angles, pulling up the chat on my laptop and placing it just out of shot, the careful choice of lingerie and a matching mask, the lines I’ll walk between begging for attention and demanding control.
It’s grounding, a way to keep a piece of my life mine when the rest feels like it’s being torn apart by forces I can’t touch.
I log in to Tempt, and the stream goes live, my loyal subscribers and a few new faces flooding in.
The city hums outside my window, oblivious to the threats hanging over me like storm clouds.
For the next hour or two, it’s just me, the screen, and this community that exists entirely in my control.
The camera doesn’t judge. My subscribers don't know I spent the weekend falling back into my stepbrother's web or the threats lurking in the shadows.
Here, I can breathe. Here, I can simply be without worrying about the things I can’t control.
I lean toward the lens, offering a slow, sultry smirk as I twirl a strand of hair around my finger and let silence do the talking. Tonight’s outfit is a fan favourite—a black mesh set that hides nothing and instead highlights everything.
CometoDaddy: Fuck you, look good enough to eat.
MistressE: Come closer, darling.
JimsCuntDestroyer: Turn around, I want to see that fucking ass.
AdamsLadder: Such a perfect little toy for us.
“Did you miss me this weekend?” My voice drops to a velvet whisper, lips curving into a pout as I glance at the camera from under my lashes. “I know I missed you.” I shift my knees just enough to flash them a teasing glimpse of what’s to come.
Lurker69: Best end to the weekend ever.
BegForMe: Christ, you’re perfect.
I tilt my head, reading the chat with a smirk as their requests get more and more desperate by the second.
“You know the rules,” I purr.
“Play nice, tip for extras, and maybe, I’ll make it worth it.” I smile, leaning into the act of seducing them—every click, every ping a tiny electric satisfaction that earns them more skin, more breathy promises, and heightens my arousal.
CometoDaddy: Show us your cunt.
CometoDaddy: Play with it for Daddy.
“You know that’s gonna cost you,” I tease them, cocking a brow in challenge and watching as the tip jar gets fuller without me lifting a finger. Playing men for the hungry fools they are never gets old.
As time ticks on, the chat melts into a single, hungry voice; their demands melding together as I feed them a slow, deliberate show—shrugging the mesh strap off one shoulder so the light skates over skin, tilting my head, biting my lower lip like it’s a secret I’m only half letting go of.
Every small movement is a promise; every pause is a dare.
BegForMe: You’re killing me.
MistressE: Lose the other strap, darling.
BegForMe: Do it slowly.
Seeing BegForMe light up my screen sends a hot reel of last night flickering through me—the way he dropped to his knees, the taste of him, the broken sounds that tore out of him.
He knows I’ve recognised him, and that knowing unravels me; it tugs at a thread I want to let him pull until it all comes undone.
There’s no hiding between us anymore, and the honesty of it feels intoxicating.
Dragging my nails over the mesh cups of my bra, the tips of my acrylics catch on my piercings, and my LED lights reflect off the metal.
My pulse spikes not from the touch but from the knowledge that he’s watching me the same way he used to watch me in rooms where cameras weren’t involved—a look that stripped me bare without a single word.
Here, though, he’s reduced to nothing more than a username; there’s safety in the distance and a kind of pain in the restraint that I’m not ready to face.
His request for a private stream doesn't come as a surprise, but it does still steal my breath.
“Alright,” I murmur to the camera, voice low, velvet-thick. “Looks like I’m being stolen away, but don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
I blow a kiss and wink as the chat explodes in betrayal and pleading, half of them already scheming to get in next time.
They think they’ve earned a piece of me.
Some have.
Most haven’t.
Some of them might be ready to burn through their entire bank account, but no one else gets a private session. Not tonight, not tomorrow, never.
Over the years, I’ve learned how to manage that disappointment.
When someone tries to request a private stream, I deny them gently, but I never leave them empty-handed.
Instead, I give them something special in the main stream—a wink, a tease, a fleeting show that satisfies the craving without offering up more than I’m willing to give.
They leave thinking they’ve touched a part of me, but the truth is, I’ve kept myself exactly where I want—safe, untouchable, untangled.
The screen flickers to black for a split second, and my hands tremble, not from fear, but from the rush of the taboo and relief wrapping around my ribs as I wait for him to join me.
Matt’s camera clicks on, his face filling the screen. His jaw is tense, hair mussed, but the hard line of his mouth softens when his eyes find mine. Seeing him like this—desperate for whatever pieces of me I’ll give—makes my spine straighten, confidence settling like heat in my veins.
He’s stripped of his anonymity now, laid bare behind a face I know better than my own reflection. The sight makes my breath hitch and steels something sharp inside me. If he’s exposed, then maybe I can find out how much pressure it takes before he cracks.
He meets my gaze without flinching, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth, darkness flickering in his eyes. It isn’t indulgent. It’s a challenge. And seeing it again reminds me just how intense things always are when he’s around.
“You know,” he rasps, voice rough and low through the speakers, “you’re doing that thing where you bite your lip and try to look all innocent, but I don’t buy the act for one second, sweetheart.”