Chapter Nine
M aya
She stared at her phone screen for the hundredth time, his desperate texts from the night before burning into her retinas. Each message had been more intense than the last, culminating in that final confession about sitting on his balcony with whiskey and regrets.
She'd read them over and over, her heart breaking a little more each time. The man who'd accused her of exploitation, who'd thrown her out of his life with cold precision, had spent hours begging for forgiveness through her phone screen.
I looked at the photos. Really looked at them. They're beautiful, Maya. You're beautiful. And I'm an idiot who doesn't deserve a second chance but is asking for one anyway.
She set down her coffee and pulled up the message that had shattered her resolve completely:
I'm sitting on my balcony with a bottle of whiskey and the worst regrets of my life. If you change your mind about talking, you know where to find me.
The timestamp read 2:47 a.m. By the time she'd seen it this morning, he had probably been passed out drunk, alone with his pain and his empty bottle. The image made her chest ache despite her anger.
She'd been editing photos for three hours, trying to lose herself in work and failing miserably. Every image reminded her of him—the way he moved, the intensity in his eyes when he'd looked at her like she was precious. Like she mattered.
She gave up trying to work. She couldn't concentrate, couldn't think about anything except the broken desperation in those late-night messages. The man who controlled everything and everyone around him had completely fallen apart over losing her.
Maybe that should have felt like victory. Instead, it just made her heart hurt.
A soft knock at her door made her glance at the clock. It was probably housekeeping, though they usually came later. She padded to the door in her silk pajamas, expecting to find a cheerful resort employee with fresh towels. Instead, she found him.
He was leaning against the doorframe like he needed the support, still wearing yesterday's clothes—wrinkled jeans and a white button-down that looked like he'd slept in it.
His dark hair was disheveled, there were shadows under his eyes, and he clutched a large coffee in one hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
He looked exactly like a man who'd spent the night drinking alone and regretting every choice that had led him there.
"Please don't close the door," he said quietly, his voice hoarse.
Her hand gripped the doorframe, every instinct telling her to protect herself from more hurt. "You look like hell."
"I feel worse." His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating. "I haven't slept. Haven't showered. I've been sitting outside your door for two hours, trying to find the courage to knock."
"Outside my door?"
He gestured to the hallway behind him, and she noticed the rumpled throw blanket on the floor near the wall, an empty coffee cup, and what looked like room service plates. He'd made camp in the hallway like some kind of lovesick teenager.
"Jesus. The staff—"
"Don't care about the staff." His gaze was intense, desperate. "I care about you. About explaining."
She studied his face, seeing exhaustion and regret etched in every line. The polished confidence she'd grown accustomed to was completely gone, replaced by vulnerability that made her chest tight.
"You got my messages," he said, and it wasn't quite a question.
"All of them. What you said in those texts—"
"I meant every word." He stepped closer, close enough that she smelled whiskey on him. "I looked at the photos. Really looked at them."
"And?"
"And I'm an idiot." His voice cracked slightly. "Your pictures are a gift. They're not exploitation or manipulation—they're love made visible."
Tears pricked her eyes, but she forced herself to remain guarded. "You accused me of planning to sell them. Called me a stranger."
"I know. And I was wrong. Completely, utterly wrong." He set his coffee aside, his hands clenching at his sides. "I was scared. Terrified of what those photos represented."
"Which was?"
"Proof that someone saw me. Really saw me.
Not the model, not the brand, but the man underneath all the armor I've spent years building.
" His voice was tight with emotion. "And instead of being grateful for that gift, I lashed out because I couldn't believe someone could see my flaws and still find something worth capturing. "
The honesty in his voice was breaking down her defenses faster than she could rebuild them. "You hurt me."
"I know. And I'll regret that for the rest of my life." His eyes were bright with unshed tears. "But you're the first person who's ever made me want to be better than what I am. You make me want to be real instead of perfect."
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold back the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. "Why should I believe you? How do I know you won't just run again the next time things get real?"
He was quiet for a long moment, he searched her face. "Because I'm not running now. Because I spent all night thinking about what my life looks like without you in it, and it's empty. Completely fucking empty."
Her resolve wavered at the broken desperation in his voice, but she needed more than just words. "That's not enough. I need to understand why you reacted the way you did. Why you immediately assumed the worst about my intentions."
He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his jaw working like he was fighting some internal battle. "There's something I need to tell you. About my ex. About Elena."
She'd heard whispers about the allegations, seen the hints on social media, but he'd never mentioned any of it directly.
"I know you've probably heard things," he continued, his voice carefully controlled. "About her accusations. About me being violent."
"I heard rumors, but I didn't want to believe—"
"It's complicated." He stepped back, putting distance between them like he was preparing for her to reject him. "She's claiming I abused her, and in a way, she's not entirely lying."
Her heart sank. "What do you mean?"
"I did hit her. Spanked her, tied her up, dominated her in ways that left marks." His voice was flat, clinical. "But it was all consensual. She begged for it, craved it. Elena is what people in the lifestyle call a pain slut—she gets off on being hurt, humiliated, dominated."
She blinked, processing this information. "So you're saying—"
"I'm saying she's weaponizing our private relationship to destroy my career. Taking things we did in bed—things she explicitly consented to and enjoyed—and twisting them into something criminal." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "And the worst part? It's working."
She saw the pain and frustration radiating from him, but also something deeper—shame, maybe, or fear.
"Why didn't you defend yourself? Publicly, I mean?"
"Because who's going to believe me? A man accused of domestic violence, claiming it was just kinky sex?" His laugh was bitter. "Elena knew exactly what she was doing. She'd done it before, to other men. But I was too fucking stupid to see the pattern."
"What pattern?"
"She seeks out dominant men, lets them think they're protecting her from some abusive ex.
Gets them invested, makes them fall for her damaged act.
Then when she gets bored or finds someone more interesting, she cries abuse and moves on to the next victim.
" He looked directly at her. "I believed her sob story about her ex Bobby supposedly hitting her.
Thought I was being her white knight, her protector. Instead, I was just another mark."
Pieces clicked into place—his reaction to her photos, his fear of being exploited, his assumption that she might be using him.
"So when you saw my folder of pictures..."
"I panicked. Because this is exactly how Elena operated—collecting evidence, documenting private moments, building a case she could use later.
" He stepped closer, his voice urgent. "I know it doesn't excuse what I said to you.
I know you're nothing like her. But in that moment, all I could think about was how she'd done the same thing—made me believe she loved me while secretly planning my destruction. "
She stared at him, seeing the fear and vulnerability he'd been hiding behind his anger. "You thought I was setting you up."
"For about five minutes, yeah. Then I actually looked at those photos, really looked at them, and I realized they weren't evidence of manipulation.
They were evidence of love." His voice broke slightly.
"Evidence of someone who saw beauty in my broken pieces instead of ammunition to use against me. "
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she understood the magnitude of what he was confessing. He wasn't just apologizing for his accusations—he was laying bare his deepest fears, the trauma that had shaped his inability to trust.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry she did that to you."
"Don't." His voice was fierce. "Don't apologize for her actions. And don't let my damage be an excuse for how I treated you. You deserved better. You deserved trust, not suspicion."
She wiped her tears, studying his face. "Is that why you've been so guarded? So afraid to let anyone close?"
"Elena taught me that vulnerability is a weapon people use against you. That the moment you let someone see your real self, they'll find a way to destroy you with it." He took a shaky breath. "You're the first person since her who made me want to try anyway."
"And?"
"And I'm terrified," he admitted. "Because what we have—what I feel for you—it's real in a way that what I had with Elena never was. Which means you could hurt me so much worse than she ever did."
Her heart broke and mended simultaneously at his honesty. This was what she'd been fighting for—not just his love, but his trust. His willingness to be vulnerable despite the risk.