Chapter 11 Cold Ruin （Joy）
COLD RUIN (JOY)
The car hums through the dark. Streetlights climb the windshield, spill across his jaw, and slide away again—the night can’t decide whether to show him off or spare him.
He hasn’t spoken since we left the city. His hands stay tight on the wheel, knuckles white; every few miles the car twitches under the pressure he won’t release.
I keep my gaze on the window—the highway, the Hudson, anything that isn’t us. I want to tell him that Josephine is only a costume, that Joy is who I am, that I can’t help where I come from. That what matters is what I choose to do with it.
My mouth won’t open.
This is why I hide. Why I don’t flaunt my name or heritage. Because when people see the lineage and the money, they stop seeing me.
And now he’s doing it too.
Exactly as I knew he would.
He walks me to the apartment. Neither of us speaks. The hall feels too bright, too clean for what’s burning between us.
When I turn the key, I stop. Face him.
“Wesley, please. Let me explain—”
“Explain what?” His voice is cold. “Which part? That your uncle signs my paychecks? That your family name is on half of Manhattan? Or that your real name—your actual name—never came up in conversation?”
“I tried—”
“When? When did you try?”
My throat closes. The Aurora. The packing. A dozen moments I could have told him and didn’t.
His voice cuts through the quiet—low, dangerous, threaded with hurt. “So we’re good now, Josephine?” The way he says it is a slap. “You got what you needed from your lumberjack?”
The words are a fist to the stomach. He thinks I used him. Thinks I’m some bored socialite who needed a rugged fling before returning to my privileged life.
When my mother called me Josephine, Wesley looked at me like I’d slapped him. And now, the sound of my name is scraping down my spine, desperation turning into fury. “I delivered exactly what we agreed on, Wesley. And yeah, we got carried away a bit. But it’s not like you didn’t enjoy it.”
“Tell me, Josephine—” he spits it again, and this time it cracks even deeper. “That trust you’re angling for, this isn’t a few hundred grand, is it?”
“And what does it matter to you?” My voice shakes as I shove the door open.
He follows, the slam behind us echoing like a gunshot.
“You’re not exactly poor either.” I whirl on him, heat rushing up my throat.
“I’ve seen your numbers. You drive a Porsche.
You’re not just some blue-collar saint chopping wood in Alaska.
You make millions hitting a puck and posing shirtless for sponsors. ”
He stiffens. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
“No, it’s not,” I fire back. “I didn’t choose this. It was handed to me. It’s what I do with it that counts.” My throat tightens. “You think I’m chasing that trust to buy handbags? You have no idea what I’d use it for.”
He steps in, jaw tight. “Then tell me.”
I shake my head. “It makes no difference.” I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You sell an image. I sell one too. You play with a puck; I play a part.”
“Yeah?” He cuts low. “And who am I in your version of the play, Josephine? The entertainment? The rough souvenir? You wanted to slum it for a few days with the help, get your hands dirty before heading back to your world of diamonds and champagne?”
“Don’t you dare,” I snap. “You have no idea what my world is.”
“Then why hide it?” His voice rises. “Why not just say who you are?”
“Because I wanted you to see me!” The words crack out of me. “Not my trust fund. Not my family name. Me. Joy. The girl who dances. Who makes you laugh. Who—” My voice breaks. “Because this—” I gesture wildly between us—”is what happens. The second people know, they stop seeing me. They just—”
I stop, helplessly. It’s pointless. “And you just proved me right.”
He steps closer, eyes blazing. “You lied to me.”
“I protected myself.”
“From what? Me?”
“From this!” I shout, shaking. “From being turned into exactly what you’re accusing me of—a spoiled rich girl who needs a regular guy to make her feel alive for five minutes.”
He flinches. For a heartbeat, he looks wrecked. Then he laughs, a quiet, broken sound that isn’t really laughter at all. “So what’s the number? Was it worth it?”
“It’s twelve million, okay?” The words tear out of me. “Twelve. Million. Dollars.”
His face doesn’t change. Somehow that’s worse than shock.
“Would you have turned me down if you’d known? Or did you just want a better rate?”
I don’t even recognize the voice coming out of my throat. The things I’m throwing at him don’t belong to me; they belong to the panic, the shame, the sight of him cracking right in front of me.
His laugh is soft and broken. “You should’ve told me who you are.” He takes a breath that sounds like it hurts. “You should’ve at least told me your name.”
“I did tell you my name. My name is Joy. Joy Preston.” Tears burn, sharp and furious. “Yes, my birth certificate says Josephine Osgood Yardley Preston. Did you need all four before you said you wanted to be my real?”
The silence after that is a gunshot. He stares at me, eyes hollowed out. “No,” he says finally, voice rough. “But your first name would’ve been nice to know.”
The air between us hums—alive, electric. He’s still breathing hard. So am I.
“Don’t turn this into something it’s not,” I whisper. “You don’t get to play the wounded hero. You got what you wanted—your ex cracked open, your ego fed. Congratulations.”
His expression goes dark. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then what is it?” My voice shakes, fury bubbling over. “Because you sure as hell don’t want the real me.”
His thumb drags across my lower lip, not gentle. “Then show me.”
“I don’t owe you real.”
“Bullshit.” His mouth slams into mine.
The kiss is violent heat—pain, anger, want—everything we can’t say. I grab his jacket, shove it off his shoulders.
He breaks away, breathing hard. “Don’t.” I haul him back. “Please. Just—”
My fingers fumble at his buttons, shaking. I need his skin under my palms. His eyes search mine, then he grips my hips, rough, sliding under silk, tearing what’s in his way. The sound that leaves me isn’t a moan, it’s a broken plea. He bites down, hungry, tasting apology and blame in equal measure.
We stumble back, collide with the wall. I shove him. He shoves back. The world narrows to heat and breath, hurt blurred into want. It’s not love. It’s punishment. For both of us.
He fists my hair, forcing my head back, and I can’t decide if I want to hit him or pull him closer.
“Is this what you want, Josephine?” he growls against my neck. “A bit of dark and mean? You want the scratch, the bite?”
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Just shut up.”
He puts his mouth next to my ear and demands, low, “Tell me what to call you.”
“Joy.” It tears out of me. “My name is Joy.”
He goes still for a beat.
His hand cuffs my wrists against the wall as he finds my gaze. With the other, he unbuckles his pants, freeing himself. He slides his length between my legs, rocking, spreading the wetness.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, Josephine. If you don’t want that, say it now.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I want you.”
His eyes close, the name and the answer shivering through him. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a condom, presses it into my shaking hand. Our eyes meet. For half a heartbeat, he’s just Wesley—hurt, wanting, terrified.
Then the moment breaks. I tear it open, roll it on with trembling fingers.
He exhales a ragged sound, hoists me up, and drives in deep.
The shock steals my breath. “Wesley,” I gasp, clutching his shoulders.
He rasps, shattered, “Beg for me.”
“Please, Wesley. Please. I want you.”
He thrusts, sharp and hard. My body rises to meet the snap of his hips, my clit throbs, my nipples ache.
I beg him to keep going, rolling my hips to match him.
He fucks me brutal, relentless, turning every ounce of anger into motion, and I hold on, face buried in his neck, letting hurt and hunger blur until they’re the same thing.
This is wrong. This is us destroying what’s left.
But I can’t stop. Won’t stop. Because when he’s inside me, I can pretend he wants me—the real Joy, not the girl he invented.
Pleasure buckles me. I gasp and clench around him; my mind blanks as everything spills over. He shudders, groans, and comes too.
When it’s over, the room goes still—sweat and winter air cooling on skin. He’s breathing hard, staring past my shoulder like the wall might offer an answer.
Sliding out, he sets me down, knots the condom, fastens his pants. I smooth my dress with shaking fingers. Tears spill, hot and unmanageable.
He looks at me, eyes splintering. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll reach out, thumb away the tears, hold me in the cold ruin of what we did to each other. Instead, he nods once, turns, and leaves.
The door catches and clicks. The echo stays.
I slide down the wall, silk pooling around me, and let the sobs come.
This is what I wanted to avoid. This exact moment. Him looking at me like I’m a stranger. Like everything we had was built on lies.
Maybe it was.
I press my palm to the wood—the way I used to press it to his chest—and whisper into the empty room, “I’m still here.”
But I’m not. Not really.
The girl he fell for in Alaska doesn’t even exist.
And Josephine Preston, heiress, coward, fool, she’s not someone worth loving.